It  is  sometimes  asked  what  inspires 
people  to  begin  to  write.  Many  reasons 
may  be  given,  but  in  this  particular  in 
stance,  a  brief  statement  of  the  author's 
experiences  might  be  of  interest. 

At  the  age  of  twenty-one  he  was  a 
homesteader  on  the  Rosebud  Indian 
Reservation,  South  Dakota,  where  he  was 
about  the  only  Negro  settler.  At  twenty- 
six  he  was  prosperous;  and  when  another 
strip  of  the  famous  reservation  was  thrown 
open  to  settlement,  he  helped  some  of 
his  relatives  to  secure  land  by  furnishing 
money  with  which  to  purchase  relinquish- 
ments  on  homesteads  and  other  expenses. 
He  also  secured  for  a  young  lady  another 
homestead,  upon  which  she  made  filings. 
Six  months  later  they  were  married  and 
then  went  to  live  on  her  homestead. 

She  was  the  (laughter  of  a  minister  in 
one  of  the  leading  Negro  churches  and 
was  well  educated,  loved  her  husband  de 
votedly—to  all  appearances— and  they 
were  happy.  (Continued  on  Back  Cover.) 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


Nice, — Hell!  How  long  do  you  figure  those  church  people  would  kite 
you  about,  if  I  told  them  what  you  were  back 
in — you  know  where?" 


THE   FORGED  NOTE 


They  stood  together  now  upon  the  walkway, 
and  suddenly  he  gripped  her  hand. 


They  regarded  the  clock  strangely,  and  uttered  audibly,  "Eighteen 

minutes  left,"  and  in  the  meantime  it  tick-tocked 

the  fatal  minutes  away. 


THE  FORGED  NOTE 

A  Romance  of  the  Darker  Races 


Utnroltt, 

WESTERN  BOOK  SUPPLY  COMPANY 
1915 


COPYRIGHT,  1915 
BY 

WOODRUFF  BANK  NOTE  Co. 


All  rights  reserved 


'Has  it  occurred  to  you  that  you  have  told  me  nothing,  absolutely 

nothing,  about  yourself?"     The  look  she  gave  him  was 

severe;  but  he  only  regarded  her  strangely. 


Press  of  the 

Woodruff  Bank  Note  Co. 
Lincoln,  Nebr. 


Murphy  conducted  a  blind  tiger  in  his  loft;  he  also  ran  a  crap  game  in 

connection;  and  it  was  his  place  that  "Legs" 

visited  frequently. 


"I  own  the  L.  &  N.  Railroad.' 


TO  ONE  WHOSE  NAME  DOES  NOT  APPEAR 

I  am  leaving  you  and  Dixie  land  tomorrow.  It  is  customary  per 
haps  to  say,  "Dear  Old  Dixie"  but,  since  I  happen  to  be  from  that 
little  place  off  in  the  northwest,  of  which  I  have  fondly  told  you, 
the  Rosebud  Country,  where  I  am  returning  at  once,  and  which 
is  the  only  place  that  is  dear  to  me,  I  could  not  conscientiously  use 
the  other  term.  Still,  I  am  grateful,  and  well  I  should  be;  for,  had 
I  not  spent  these  eighteen  months  down  here,  I  could  never  have 
written  this  story.  No  imagination,  positively  not  mine,  could  have 
created  "Slim",  "T.  Toddy",  "Legs",  "John  Moore",  et  al.  I 
really  knew  them.  I  haven't  even  changed  their  names,  since  what's 
the  use?  They,  unless  by  chance,  will  never  know,  for,  as  I  knew 
them,  they  never  read.  Only  one  of  them  I  am  sure  ever  owned  a 
book.  That  one  did,  however,  and  that  I  know,  for  he  stole  my 
dictionary  before  I  left  the  town.  Whatever  he  expected  to  do  with 
it,  is  a  puzzle  to  me,  but  since  it  was  leather-bound^  I  think  he 
imagined  it  was  a  Bible.  He  was  very  fond  of  Bibles,  and  I  re 
call  that  was  the  only  thing  he  read.  He  is  in  jail  now,  so  I  under 
stand;  which  is  no  surprise,  since  he  visited  there  quite  often  in  the 
six  months  I  knew  him.  As  to  "Legs",  I  have  no  word;  but  since 
summer  time  has  come,  I  am  sure  "Slim"  has  either  gone  into 
"business"  or  is  "preaching."  "T.  Toddy"  was  pretty  shaky  when 
I  saw  him  last,  and  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  were  not  now  in 
Heaven.  And  still,  with  what  he  threatened  to  do  to  me  when  he  was 
informed  that  I  had  written  of  him  in  a  book,  he  may  be  in  the  other 
place,  who  knows!  I  recall  it  with  a  tremor.  We  were  in  a  restau 
rant  some  time  after  the  first  threat,  but  at  that  time,  he  appeared 
to  understand  that  I  had  written  nothing  bad  concerning  him,  and 
we  were  quite  friendly.  He  told  of  himself  and  his  travels,  relat 
ing  a  trip  abroad,  to  Liverpool  and  London.  In  the  course  of  his 
remarks,  he  told  that  he  used  to  run  down  from  Liverpool  to  London 
every  morning,  since  it  was  just  over  the  hill  a  mile,  and  could  be 
seen  from  Liverpool  whenever  the  fog  lifted.  He  advised  me  a 
bit  remonstratingly,  that,  since  I  had  written  of  him  in  the  book, 
if  I  had  come  to  him  in  advance,  he  would  have  told  me  something 
of  himself  to  put  into  it  that  would  have  interested  the  world.  I 
suggested  that  it  was  not  then  too  late,  and  that  he  should  make 
a  copy  of  it.  He  intimated  that  it  would  be  worth  something  and  I 
agreed  with  him,  and  told  him  I  would  give  him  fifty  cents.  He 
said  that  would  be  satisfactory,  but  he  wanted  it  then  in  advance. 
I  wouldn't  agree  to  that,  but  told  him  that  he  would  have  to  give 
me  a  brief  of  his  life,  where  and  when  he  was  born,  if  he  had  been, 
also  where  and  when  he  expected  to  die,  etc.  first.  He  got  "mad" 
then  and  threatened  to  do  something  "awful".  Took  himself 
outside  and  opened  a  knife,  the  blade  of  which  had  been  broken, 
and  was  then  about  a  half  inch  long,  and  told  me  to  come  out,  where 
upon  he  would  show  me  my  heart.  As  he  waited  vainly  for  me, 
he  took  on  an  expression  that  made  him  appear  the  worst  man 
in  all  the  world.  I  did  not,  of  course  go  out,  and  told  him  so — 
through  the  window. 

That  was  the  end  of  it — -and  of  him,  so  far  as  I  know.    But  you 
can  understand  by  this  how  near  I  have  been  to  death  in  your  Dixie 
Land.     When  I  come  back  it  will  not  be  for  "color";    but— well, 
I  guess  you  know. 
New  Orleans,  La.,  August  1,  1915.  0.  M. 


He  awakened  from  a  strange  dream.     The  Bible  had  fallen  to 
floor,  and  lay  open  at  a  chapter  under  which  was  written, 
"THOU  SHALT  NOT  STEAL!" 


the 


BOOK  ONE 

WHICH  DEALS  WITH  ORIGINALS 
CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  THE  BARRIER 15 

II  ATTALIA 31 

III  NEXT  DAY — DISCOVERIES 40 

IV  AND  HE  NEVER  KNEW 47 

V  B.  J.  DICKSON 51 

VI  "On,  You  SELL  BOOKS!" 59 

VII  IN  THE  OFFICE  OF  THE  GRAND  SECRETARY 63 

VIII    HENRY  HUGH  HODDER 67 

IX    "SWEET  GENEVIEVE" 74 

X  "Do  SOMETHING  AND  YOU'LL  FIND  OUT" 78 

XI  "  JEDGE  L'YLES'  CO'T" 84 

XII  A  JEW;  A  GENTILE;  A  MURDER — AND  SOME  MORE..  . .  93 

XIII  "  'CAUSE  NIGGA'S  's  GITTIN'  So  RICH" 105 

XIV  AND  THEN  CAME  SLIM Ill 

XV  "SHOO  FLY!" 124 

XVI  "WHY  Do  You  LOOK  AT  ME  so  STRANGELY?" 130 

XVII  "I'LL  NEVER  BE  ANYTHING  BUT  A  VAGABOND!" 140 

BOOK  TWO 

THE  BEAST  AND  THE  JUNGLE 
CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    EFFINGHAM 149 

II  'THESE  NEGROES  IN  EFFINGHAM  ARE  NIGGA'S  PROPER "164 

III  'I  HAVE  BEEN  MARRIED",  SAID  SHE 173 

IV  ' BIDDER   STUCK  UP  AH  SHE'S  A  WITCH!" 181 

V     ' A  BIGGA  LIAH  THEY  AIN'T  IN  TOWN! " 189 

VI  'YES— MISS  LATHAM!" 196 

VII  '!T  ALL  FALLS  RIGHT  BACK  ON  SOCIETY!" 202 

VIII  'WHERE  ARE  You  FROM?" 206 

IX     'BUT  SMITH  is  NOT  His  REAL  NAME" 211 

X      'WHEN  You  HAVE  BEEN  GRASS  WIDOWED,  IT'S  DIF 
FERENT"  224 

XI  "I'M  WORRIED  ABOUT  MILDRED" 232 

XII  AND  THEN  SHE  BEGAN  TO  GROW  OTHERWISE 241 

XIII  ENTER— MR.  TOM  TODDY! 243 

XIV  THE  DISAPPEARING  CHIN 256 

XV    "WILSON!    WILSON!    MILDRED  HAS  GONE!" 268 

XVI  THE  BEAST  AND  THE  JUNGLE 273 

XVII  "THIS  is  MR.  WINSLOW,  MADAM!" 278 

XVIII  "THOU  SHALT  NOT  STEAL" 2^5 

XIX    THEY  TURNED  HER  OUT  OF  CHURCH .  .  2"0 

XX  "I  LOVE  You" 299 

XXI  "PLEASE  GET  D'  OLE  MAN  OUTTA  JAIL" 302 

XXII  "THIS  MAN  is  LOSING  His  MIND!" 309 

XXIII  "I'LL  BRAND  You  AS  A  FAKER!" :  . .  .317 

XXIV  THE  ARRAIGNMENT..  32i 


'A  crooked  "mother   can't  raise  a  straight  daughter.   It's  up  to  the 
daughter— and  I've  failed!" 


BOOK  THREE 

A   MATTER   OF   TWENTY-FIVE   THOUSAND 
DOLLARS 

CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I     "THAT  GAL'S  CROOKED " 336 

II  "IT  WAS  IN  THAT  CHURCH  LAST  SUNDAYl" .  .  .344 

III     "Un!  'ES  GOT  'IM  A  NIGGA!" 349 

VI     "PLEASE  Go!"    SHE  CRIED  HOARSELY 355 

V    THE  TIME  LIMIT 362 

VI  REMINISCENCES — CHARGE  OF  THE  BLACK  CAVALARY.  . .  .369 

VII     "PLEASE  STOP — AND  SAVE  ME!" 375 

VIII    WHAT  HER  EYES  SAW 381 

IX  "WHA's  Y'  MAN?" 386 

X     "KICK  HIGHER  DARE  GAL!" 392 

XI     "MY  WIFE— SICK— HELLl" 397 

XII     MID-NIGHT  DECEMBER  THIRTY-FIRST 407 

XIII  INTO  THE  INFINITE  LONG  AGO 412 

XIV  "Go,  BROTHER!    IN  GOD'S  NAME,  Go!" 418 

BOOK  FOUR 
THE  QUEST  ETERNAL 

CONTENTS 

I  "  ' SCRIMINATIN'  'GINST  NIGGA'S" 422 

II  AT  LAST  SHE  DIDN'T  CARE 432 

III  "THEY  KNEW  HE  HAD  WRITTEN  THE  TRUTH!" 439 

IV  THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  THREE  MOLES 446 

V  "HELLO  BROWN  SKIN" 450 

VI  "WHO'RE  YOU!"  SHE  REPEATED 456 

VII  "AT  LAST,  OH  LORD,  AT  LAST!" 462 

VIII  "WELL  I'M  GOING."  AND  SHE  WENT 468 

IX  "I  HOPE  You— WON'T— BE— ANGRY" 473 

X  VELLUN  PARISH — JEFFERSON  BERNARD 478 

XI  "MILDRED,  I'VE  COME  BACK" 495 

XII    THE  SLAVE  MARKET 504 

XIII    "RESTITUTION"..  ..515 


She  had  never  felt  that  he  would  rebuke  her,  but  now  she  turned  her 
head  away  to  shut  out  the  scorn  in  the  look  he  had  given  her. 


'Wha's  yo'  man?"  "I — I  have  no  maw,"  Mildred  replied,  turning  her 
face  away.     "I  am  alone — alone  in  everything." 


That  last  woman  I   married  "said  Slim,"  was  such  a  devil 
she  almost  made  me  lose  my  religion." 


THE  FORGED  NOTE 


CHARACTERS 

SYDNEY  WYETH,  An  Obsever,  Who  had  the  Courage  of  His  Con 
victions. 

MILDRED  LATHAM,  A  Girl  of  Mystery,  Whose  Fortunes  are  What 
We  Follow. 

FURGESON  AND  THURMAN,  Originals,  Who  Possessed  some  Wit  and 
Humor. 

B.  J.  DICKSON,  An  Editor,  and  a  Fighter  of  the  Right  Sort. 

V.   R.   COLEMAN,    (SLIM)   A  Summertime  Professor  and  "Business 
Man".     (?) 

"LEGS",  a  "Crap  Shooter",  Who  Reformed  and  Became  a  Hero. 

JOHN  MOORE,  A  Character,  Who  Read  the  Bible — and  did  Other 
Things. 

Miss  PALMER,    Grasswidow  and    School    Teacher,    Who    Desired 
to  Remarry. 

DR.  RANDALL,  A  Druggist,  Who  Knew  Everybody's  Business. 

WILSON  JACOBS,   A  Minister,  Who  Works  for  Uplift  among  Black 
People. 

CONSTANCE  JACOBS,  His  Sister,  a  Friend  of  the  Girl  of  Mystery. 

STEPHEN   MYER,  With  a  Heart,  but  a  Sinner,  Who  Died  and  Went 
to . 


THE  FORGED  NOTE 


BOOK  I. 

CHAPTER  ONE 

The  Barrier 

He  sat  at  a  desk  in  the  small  office  he  had  taken. 
Before  him  were  papers  and  bills — unpaid — and  letters 
too,  he  had  not  opened,  while  to  one  side  were  others  he 
had  read,  and  had  typed  replies  thereto.  He  had  paused 
in  his  work,  and  was  gazing  stupidly  at  the  litter  before 
him. 

His  name  was  Sidney  Wyeth,  and  his  home  was  away 
off  in  the  great  northwest,  in  a  strip  of  territory  known  as 
the  Rosebud  Country.  As  we  meet  him  now,  however,  he 
is  located  on  the  fifth  floor  of  an  office  building,  slightly 
toward  the  outskirts  of  the  business  district  of  one  of  our 
great  American  cities.  He  is  by  profession  an  author, 
which  might  explain  his  presence  at  a  desk.  It  happens, 
however,  that  he  is  not  there  this  time  as  a  weaver  of 
dreams,  but  attending  to  matter  in  connection  with  the 
circulation  of  his  work,  for  he  is  his  own  publisher. 

At  that  moment,  however,  he  was  nothing,  for  he 
was  sick.  For  days  he  had  felt  a  strange  illness.  Ob 
viously  it  had  almost  reached  an  acute  stage;  for,  appar 
ently  unable  to  maintain  an  upright  position  at  the  desk, 
he  presently  stretched  himself  face  downward. 

He  might  have  been  in  this  position  an  hour,  or  it  might 
have  been  only  a  few  minutes;  but  of  a  sudden  he  was 
brought  to  a  position  again  erect,  with  ears  alert,  since 
he  was  sure  he  had  heard  a  sound  without.  He  strained 
his  ears  in  silence. 

Outside,  a  soft  rain  was  falling.  As  he  continued  to 
listen,  his  gaze  wandered  out  over  the  city  below,  with 
its  medley  of  buildings  that  rose  to  various  heights, 
and  sparkled  with  electric  lights.  His  gaze,  in  drift 
ing,  presently  surveyed  the  main  street  of  the  city,  an 

15 


16  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

unusually  wide  thoroughfare,  filled  with  the  accustomed 
traffic.  Beyond  lay  the  harbor,  for  the  city  is  a  great 
port,  and  the  same  was  then  filled  with  innumerable  vessels 
from  far  and  near.  A  huge  man-o-war  arrested  his 
attention  for  a  while,  and  then  his  gaze  wandered  further. 
A  wind  had  risen,  from  the  way  the  water  was  dashed 
to  spray  against  the  windows.  The  sound  of  a  clock 
striking  five  resounded  through  the  damp  air,  and 
echoed  in  stentorian  tones.  It  was  late-winter,  but,  due 
perhaps  to  the  overcast  skies,  twilight  was  rapidly 
fading  into  darkness. 

Failing  to  hear  any  further  sound,  he  presently  resumed 
his  tired  position,  and  a  few  minutes  later  was  lost  in  a 
sickly  slumber. 

There  could  be  no  mistake  now!  A  step  sounded  in 
the  hallway.  It  was  a  light  step,  but  firm  and  brisk  and 
forward.  It  was  unmistakably  that  of  a  young  woman. 
Onward  it  came  in  the  direction  of  his  small  office. 
There  was  a  brief  pause  when  the  footsteps  reached  the 
door,  and  then  a  knock,  but  without  response  from  within. 
Presently  the  door  was  pushed  open,  and  the  intruder 
entered  the  room  lightly.  Still,  Sidney  Wyeth,  un 
conscious  of  the  presence  of  his  visitor,  did  not  move  or 
speak. 

The  stranger  paused  hesitatingly,  when  once  inside, 
and  observed  him  closely,  where  he  sat  with  his  face 
buried  in  his  arms. 

She  was  an  attractive  colored  girl,  trimly  dressed  in  a 
striking,  dark-blue  tailored  suit,  cut  in  the  latest  fashion. 
A  small  hat  reposed  jauntily  upon  her  head,  while  a 
wealth  of  dark  hair  was  gathered  in  a  heavy  mass  over 
her  ears.  Her  delicately  molded  face,  set  off  by  a  figure 
seemingly  designed  by  an  artist,  were  sufficient  to  cap 
tivate  the  most  discriminating  critic. 

A  thin  dark  strap  extended  over  one  shoulder,  at  the 
ends  of  which  a  small  case  was  attached.  Presently  she 
drew  a  book  from  this  same  case,  and  crossed  the  room 
to  where  the  man  sat. 

"Good  evening,"  she  ventured,  pausing  at  his  side, 
and  fumbling  the  book  she  had  taken  from  the  case,  in 


THE  BARRIER  17 

evident  embarassment.  He  mumbled  something  inaud 
ible,  but  remained  silent.  His  outwardly  indifferent 
reception  had  not  a  discouraging  effect  upon  his  visitor, 
however,  for  no  sooner  had  she  caught  the  sound  of  his 
voice,  than  she  fell  into  a  concentrated  explanation  of 
the  book. 

Soft  and  low,  in  spite  of  the  rapid  flow  of  words,  her 
voice  fell  upon  his  ears,  and  served  to  arouse  him  at  last 
from  his  apparent  lethargy;  but  it  was  not  that  alone 
which  made  him  rise  to  a  half  sitting  posture,  and  strain 
his  ears.  It  was  a  peculiar  familiarity  in  the  tone.  As 
he  continued  to  listen,  he  became  convinced  that  some 
where,  in  the  months  gone  by,  he  had  heard  that  voice 
before.  "Where  was  it?"  he  whispered,  but,  in  his 
sluggish  thoughts,  he  could  not  then  recall.  There  was 
one  thing  of  which  there  was  no  doubt,  however,  and 
which  added  strangely  to  the  mystery.  She  was  explain 
ing  his  own  book,  The  Tempest. 

At  last,  in  his  morbid  thoughts,  he  gave  up  trying  to 
connect  the  voice  with  a  person  he  had  once  known,  and, 
with  a  tired,  long  drawn  sigh,  raised  his  hand  wearily 
to  his  head,  and  grasped  it  as  if  in  pain.  The  flow  of 
words  ceased  at  once,  and  the  voice  now  cried,  with  a 
note  of  pain,  and  plainly  embarrassed: 

"You  are  ill  and  I  have  disturbed  you!  Oh,  I'm  so 
sorry!  Can  you  overlook — pardon  such  an  awkward 
blunder?"  She  clasped  her  hands  helplessly,  and  was 
plainly  distressed.  And  then,  as  if  seized  with  a  sudden 
inspiration,  she  cried,  in  a  low,  subdued  voice:  "I'll  make 
a  light  and  bathe  your  forehead!  You  seem  to  have 
fever!" 

Turning  nimbly,  and  before  he  could  object,  had  he 
wished  to,  she  crossed  quickly  to  where  a  small  basin 
hung  from  the  wall;  above  this  was  an  electric  button, 
which  could  be  seen  in  the  semi-darkness.  Touching  this, 
whereupon  the  room  became  aglow  with  light,  she 
caught  up  a  towel;  and,  dampening  one  end,  she  re- 
crossed  to  where  he  sat,  strangely  stupid,  and,  without 
hesitation,  placed  the  wet  end  over  his  burning  forehead, 
and  held  it  there  for  possibly  a  minute. 


18  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"Now,"  she  inquired  softly,  in  a  tone  of  solicitous 
relief,  "do  you  feel  better?" 

As  she  concluded,  she  stepped  where  she  could  see  his 
face  more  easily,  and  sought  his  eyes  anxiously.  The 
next  moment,  both  recoiled  in  sudden  recognition,  as  he 
cried: 

"You!" 

She  was  likewise  astonished,  and,  after  only  a  fraction 
of  a  moment,  but  in  which  she  regarded  him  with  an 
expression  that  was  akin  to  an  appeal,  she  likewise 
exclaimed : 

"And  you!"  Quickly  she  became  composed;  and, 
catching  up  the  book,  as  though  discovered  in  some 
misdemeanor,  with  a  hurried,  parting  glance,  without 
another  word,  she  abruptly  left  the  room. 

She  was  gone,  but  his  brain  was  in  a  tumult. 

And  then  the  illness,  that  had  been  hovering  over  him 
for  some  time,  like  a  sinister  ghost,  suddenly  came  into 
its  own,  and  a  moment  later,  with  a  convulsive  gasp,  he 
fell  forward  across  the  desk,  deathly  sick. 

It  had  begun  in  Cincinnati  more  than  a  year  before. 
Wyeth,  accompanied  by  an  assistant,  had  come  down  from 
Dayton  for  the  purpose  of  advertising  his  book,  The 
Tempest  in  that  city.  It  was  just  preceding  an  election, 
that  resulted  in  a  change  in  the  city  government.  And 
it  was  then  he  became  acquainted  with  Jackson. 

Now,  being  of  an  observant  turn  of  mind,  Wyeth  took 
an  interest  in  the  state  of  affairs.  He  found  the  city  very 
much  worked  up  on  his  arrival.  He  had  not  yet  secured 
accommodation,  but,  while  standing  on  a  corner  after 
checking  his  luggage  in  a  nearby  drug-store,  he  was  gazing 
up  and  down  the  street  taking  in  the  sights. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  someone,  and  turning,  Wyeth  and 
his  companion  looked  upon  a  man.  He  was  a  large 
mulatto  with  curly  hair,  small  eyes,  a  sharp  nose,  a  firm 
chin,  and  an  unusually  small  mouth  for  a  Negro.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  dark  suit,  the  worse  for  wear,  while  his  shoes 
appeared  never  to  have  been  shined — in  fact,  his  appear 
ance  was  not  altogether  inviting.  And  yet,  there  was 


THE  BARRIER  19 

something  about  the  man  that  drew  Wyeth's  attention, 
and  he  listened  carefully  to  what  he  said.  "You  seem 
to  be  strangers  in  the  city,  and  of  co'se  will  requiah 
lodgin'."  He'ah  is  my  ca'd,"  he  said,  extending  the  bit 
of  paste  board  upon  which  Sidney  read  at  a  glance 

THE  JACKSON    HOUSE 

FIRST  CLASS   ROOMS,    TRANSIENT  OR   REGULAR 
OPEN    DAY  AND  WIGHT 

"I'm  the  proprietor  and  the  place  is  at  yo'  disposal. 
Supposin'  you  stop  with  me  while  youah  in  the  city* 
I'llsho  treat/  right. " 

Sidney  believed  him,  but  his  appearance  made  him 
hesitant.  He  looked  questioningly  at  his  companion. 
The  other's  expression  was  unfavorable  to  Jackson.  So, 
after  a  pause  and  a  prefunctory  nod,  they  dismissed  him 
and  proceeded  to  look  further  in  quest  of  accommodation. 

An  hour  or  more  was  thus  lost,  and,  being  unable  to 
find  a  room  that  satisfied  them,  they  at  last,  with  some 
reluctance,  found  their  way  to  The  Jackson  House. 

Inspection  still  left  them  dissatisfied,  but  it  was  get 
ting  late,  so  they  decided  to  spend  the  night.  Jackson 
showed  them  to  what  he  termed  his  "best  room. "  Wyeth 
looked  with  evident  disfavor  about  the  walls  that  were 
heavy  with  cob  webs,  while  the  windowsill  was  as  heavy 
with  dust.  Jackson,  following  his  gaze,  hastily  offered 
apology  and  excuse. 

"Eve'thing  needs  a  little  dusting  up,  and  the  reason 
you  happen  to  find  things  as  you  do,  is  because  I've 
been  so  busy  with  politics  of  late,  that  I  have  jes'  nach'elly 
neglected  my  business". 

Ah!  That  was  it,  thought  Sidney.  He  had  felt  this 
man  was  in  some  way  out  of  the  ordinary.  "So  you're  a 
politician?"  he  queried,  observing  him  carefully  now. 

"  You  hit  it,  son,  "he  chuckled.  "Yeh;  that's  my  line, 
sho."  Turning  now,  with  his  face  wreathed  in  smiles, 
he  continued:  "Big  'lection  on  in  a  few  days,  too." 

"So  I  understand,"  said  Sidney.  "I  shall  be  glad  to 
talk  with  you  regarding  the  same  at  your  convenience 
later,"  and,  paying  him  for  the  room,  they  betook  them 
selves  to  the  street. 


20  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

Election  day  was  on,  and  Jackson  was  the  busiest  man 
in  town.  He  was  what  may  be  called  a  "good  mixer/' 
to  say  the  least,  and  Sidney  and  he  had  become  good 
friends.  So  said  Jackson  that  morning. 

"Got  a  big  job  on  t'day,  kid;  yeh,  a  big  job." 

"So.     ..." 

"Yeh;  gotta  vote  thirty-five  ah  fo'ty  nigga's,  'n',  'f 
youah  'quainted  wi'  ouh  fo'kes,  you  c'n  'predate  what 
I'm  up  ag'inst." 

"Indeed.     .     .    ." 

"Yeh;  nigga's  o'nry  y'  know;  and  lie  lak  dogs;  but 
I'm  'n'  ole  han'  at  the  bus'ness,  cause  that's  my  line. 
Yeh.  Been  votin'  nigga's  in  this  precinct  now  fo'  mor'n 
thi'ty  yeahs,  so  you'n  see  I  autta  know  what  I'm  'bout." 

"I'd  bet  on  that." 

Jackson  chuckled  again.  "  The  fust  and  wo'st  difficulty 
is  the  dinge's  ig'nance".  Drawing  a  sample  ballot  from 
somewhere,  he  displayed  and  explained  it  at  some  length. 
"Now  we  gotta  pu'ty  faih  line  up  on  this  ticket  this 
trip — 'co'se  the's  a  lotta  suckers  on  it  that  I'd  lak  t'  see 
scratched;  but  we  cain'  affo'd  to  take  the  risk,  'cause  it's 
lak  this.  Nigga's  so  ig'nant  'n'  pig  headed  they'd  sho 
spile  it  all  'f  we  tried  to  have  them  do  any  scratching. 
So  the  only  sho  thing  is  to  instruct  them  t'  vote  straight. 
Get  me,  Steve?" 

Wyeth,  listening  carefully,  nodded,  and  for  a  moment, 
a  picture  of  the  titanic  struggle  of  a  half  century  before, 
rose  before  him;  its  cause,  its  moral  and  more;  it's 
sacrifice.  Jackson  was  speaking  again. 

"Now  we  sho  gotta  win  out  this  time;  this  'lection  has 
got  to  put  in  ouh  candidates;  'cause  'f  we  don't — and  this 
is  between  me  'n'  you  'n'  that  can  a  beah — things  sho 
go'n  break  bad  wi'  me!  But  'f  things  slide  through  0. 
K. — 'n  my  candidates  walk  in,  it  means  a  cole  hund'd 
fo'  muh;  think  of  it,"  he  repeated,  "a  cole  hund'd,  Ah!" 
And,  smacking  his  lips  after  a  long  draught  of  beer,  he 
emitted  an  exclamation  to  emphasize  what  it  would 
mean  to  him,  that  wouldn't  look  very  nice  in  print. 

"What  do  these  others  get  if  your  candidates  are 
elected?"  asked  Wyeth,  when  Jackson  paused. 


THE  BARRIER  21 

"Aw,  them  suckers  gets  theahs  wether  my  men's  'lected 
a'  not.  That's  always  my  goat,  'f  I  could  get  them  t' 
vote  '  so  much  ah'  nothin'  I  could  make  a  who'  lot  mo'; 
but  we  gotta  fo'k  out  two  dollahs  a  piece,  win  or  lose — and, 
a  co'se,  plenty  of  liquah;  but  we  don'  give  a  damn  'bout 
that,  as  the  saloon  men  furnish  that,  gratis." 

"And  you  can  depend  upon  them  to  vote  as  you  wish 
—rather,  instruct?"  ventured  Wyeth.  At  this  Jackson 
gave  a  low,  short  laugh  as  he  replied: 

"That's  whe'  I  plays  the  high  ca'd  V  gets  a  hund'd," 
and,  laughing  again  in  that  peculiar  fashion,  he  would 
say  no  more. 

The  polls  had  closed.  Darkness  had  settled  over  the 
city.  The  saloons  had  opened  their  doors.  From  the 
streets  came  forth  hilarious  sounds,  where  the  many  hun 
dreds,  now  steeped  in  liquor,  reeled  about.  This  con 
fusion,  mingled  with  the  crash  of  heavy  wagons,  and  horse 
hoofs  hurrying  over  the  cobblestones,  filled  the  damp 
air  with  an  almost  deafening  noise. 

Sidney  Wyeth  lay  stretched  across  the  bed  in  his  room, 
listening  idly  to  the  sounds  that  echoed  and  re-echoed 
through  the  frame  building.  Presently,  his  attention  was 
attracted  by  another  noise,  familiar,  but  more  notice 
able  on  this  day. 

" T-click-i-lick-ilick-ah — ha  dice!  T-click-ilick-i-lick- 
ah — ha  dice!" 

"Aw,  shake  'm  ole  nigga,  shake  'm!" 

"Yeh.  Roll  'm  out.  Don'  let  'm  spin  'roun'  on  d' 
en'  lak  dat!  Shake  'm  up.  Make  music!" 

"  T-click-i-lick-i-lick— ah— ha  dice ! " 

"Trowed  eight!" 

"Dime  he'n  make  it!" 

"Make  it  a  nickel!" 

"Ah  fate  yu'". 

"Hu'ry  up,  ole  shine!    Git  yij'  bet  down." 

"Shoot  urn!" 

"T-click-i-lick-i-lick— ah,  ha  dice!" 

"Two  bits  'ell  seben!" 

"Ah  got  yu'!" 


22  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

' '  T-click-i-lick-i-lick-ah,  eighty  day-es ! ' ' 

"Cain'  make  eight  wid  a  one  up!" 

"Do'n'  try  no  kiddin'." 

"  T-click-i-lick-ilick — ah — eighter  from  Decatur!" 

"Make  music  nigga,  make  music!" 

"Two  bits  Fnpass!" 

"Ah  got  yu'!" 

' '  T-click-i-lick-i-lick — ah — eighty  day-es ! ' ' 

"Trowed  seben!" 

"Gimme  d'  craps!" 

"Now,  dice;  ah — seben  ah  'leben!" 

"Throwed  craps!" 

' '  Hole  on !    Hole  on !    You  caught  dem  dice,  ole  nigga ! ' ' 

"Caught  Hell!  You  trowed  craps,  d'y  'e  heah!  Two 
big  sixes!"  A  scrambling,  mingled  with  much  swearing, 
ensued. 

"Say,  cut  out  dis  awgun'  V  squabblin',"  interposed 
one. 

1  'E  cam'  take  mah  money  lak  dat, "  protested  the  loser. 
1  T  you  don'  gity'  rough  mit  offa  dat  coin,  yuh  big 
lump  a  dough,  I  g'in'  finish  spreadin'  dat  nose  ovah  y' 
face!" 

"Ton  lak  dis-a-way  a  messin'  wi'  mah  jingle!" 

"Youse  a  cheap  nigga,  Bad  Eye,  'n'  y'  know  it.  You 
all  time  buttin'  int'  a  game  wid  about  a  dime,  den  sta'tin' 
a  big  argerment. " 

"Hush !    AhV  dat  Jackson  a-comin' ? " 

Silence  for  possibly  a  minute.  A  muttering  began  to 
go  around  as  they  schuffled  about. 

"Ah  done  ca'ied  out  mah  'structions  'n'  now  ah  wants 
muh  dough-rine,"  some  one  spat  out  ominously. 

"Me,  too,"  said  another. 

"Aw,  be  patient.    Jack's  all  right,"  argued  one. 

"Sho",  echoed  another. 

"  Yeh,  dat'  all  right,  's  fur  itjgoes;  but  Fn  handle  mah 
money  bet'n  anybody  else." 

A  heavy  step  sounded  in  the  hallway,  and  presently  a 
door  opened  into  the  room,  admitting  Jackson. 

"All  heah,  boys,  eh!"  He  said  in  a  voice  that  revealed 
high  spirits.  "Good — what's  this?  Havin'  a  little  game 


THE  BARRIER  23 

already?  Say!  Looks  like  y'  might  a- waited  fo'  old  Jack, 
ha  ha!" 

"Well,"  he  resumed  after  a  general  laughing,  "Did 
eve'  body  vote  straight?" 

'Sho",  they  cried  in  chorus. 

'N'  how  'bout  you,  little  breeches." 

'Ke-heh!  You  say.  'Stamp  ri'  undah  da'  ole  elephant's 
ta  1' ;  so  when  I  got  'nside  da'  place  wi  one  a  dem  ballets, 
all  dem  names  ah  did'n'  know  nothin'  'bout;  but  I 
'memb'd  what  you  say,  so  I  jes'  caught  hole  that  li'l  ole 
thing  'n'  went,  bim!  ri'  unda'  da'  ole  elephant's  tail, 
ya-ha!"  The  room,  for  a  time,  resounded  with  laughter. 

Just  then,  Wyeth  heard  someone  rap  at  the  street  door, 
enter,  and  presently  the  counting  and  the  clink  of  corns 
came  to  his  ears.  Then  the  door  closed,  and  a  moment 
later,  retreating  foot  steps  were  heard  in  the  hall-way. 
It  was  the  lieutenant.  And  now  the  gurgle  of  throats 
could  be  heard  plainly,  and  the  game  was  resumed,  with 
Jackson  in  charge. 

In  the  other  room,  Wyeth  stripped  himself  and  retired, 
and,  ere  sleep  came  to  him  that  night,  he  again  had  a 
vision  of  that  titanic  struggle  and  its  human  slaughter — 
and  it  had  all  been  to  give  those  black  men  the  right.  (?) 
Far  into  the  night  he  thought  it  over,  and  when  sleep  did 
come  at  last,  he  went  into  slumberland,  at  a  loss  to  know 
whether  to  condemn  or  to  pity  those  poor  creatures,  who, 
that  day — and  before — had  sold  jtheir  birthright  for  a 
mess  of  pottage. 

Weeks  had  passed.  Over  all  the  north  country,  snow- 
laden  fields  frowned.  Zero  weather  was  felt  in  many 
places.  Sidney  Wyeth  was  about  to  quit  it  for  a  place 
far  to  the  south,  and  at  that  moment,  sat  in  the  union 
station  at  Columbus.  A  man  marked  with  a  chalk  upon 
the  bulletin  board  the  following: 

TRAIN  FOR  CINCINNATI  AND  THE  SOUTH,  TWO  HOURS  LATE 

And  it  was  only  then  it  occurred  to  him  that  a  letter 
might  be  at  the  postoffice  for  him.  Forthwith  he  betook 
himself,  returning  shortly  with  a  small  envelope,  with 
his  name  written  daintily  across  it  in  a  feminine  hand 


24  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

It  was  from  Mildred  Latham,  the  girl  he  loved,  and  the 
heroine  of  our  story. 

"Mildred,  my  Mildred!"  he  whispered  softly, as  he 
gazed  fondly  at  the  epistle,  and  then  broke  the  seal  and 
read  it.  "Tonight,  my  dear,"  he  dreamily  whispered,  "I 
shall  ask  you  to  become  my  wife,  for  I  love  you,  love 
you,  love  you!" 

As  he  sat  waiting,  his  thoughts  went  back  to  the  time 
he  had  met  her,  and  the  place. 

It  was  in  Cincinnati,  and  before  the  election.  He  had, 
while  canvassing,  come  upon  her  in  the  door-way  of  a 
house  with  two  stories,  and  a  door  that  opened  upon  the 
street.  She  stood  in  that  door-way,  and  he  had  approached 
her  with  much  courtesy,  and  after  his  usual  explanation, 
had  sold  her  The  Tempest.  He  had  been  struck  at 
once  by  her  appearance,  and  something  about  her  ex 
pression — her  obvious  intelligence.  She  seemed  possibly 
twenty-one  or  two.  "And  such  features,"  he  breathed 
unheard.  She  also  had,  he  quickly  observed,  a  wonder 
ful  skin — a  smooth,  velvety  olive,  with  round  checks; 
where,  notwithstanding  the  slight  darkness,  a  faint  flush 
came  and  went.  As  to  size,  she  was  not  tall;  and  still 
not  short;  nor  was  she  stout  or  slender;  but  of  that  in 
definite  type  called  medium.  Serenely  perched,  her  head 
leaned  slightly  back.  She  had  a  frank  face  and  rounded 
forehead,  from  under  which  large,  lustrous,  soft  dark  eyes- 
somewhat  sad — gazed  out  at  him.  And  as  he  continued 
in  his  subtle  observation,  he  was  pleased  to  note  that  her 
nose  was  not  large  or  flat,  but  stood  up  beautifully.  Her 
lips  were  red  as  cherries.  The  chin  was  handsomely 
molded  and  firm,  but  slightly  thin,  and  protruding. 
Her  hair  was  the  most  captivating  of  all.  Done  in  the 
fashion,  it  was  coal  black  and  wavy.  It  was  of  a  fine, 
silken  texture,  and  apparently  long,  from  the  size  of  the 
knot  at  the  back  of  her  head.  All  this  he  observed  with 
favor.  He  had  never  seen  a  figure  so  clear  cut.  The  girl 
was,  furthermore,  dressed  in  a  plain,  dark  silk  dress,  with 
small  feet,  the  toes  of  which,  at  that  moment,  peeped  like 
mice  from  beneath  the  trimly  hanging  skirt.  Now,  be 
fore  he  had  gotten  far  in  his  dynamic  spiel,  the  sun,  all 


THE  BARRIER  25 

red  and  glorious,  as  its  rays  slanted  in  the  west,  came  sud 
denly  from  beneath  a  cloud,  and  played  hide  and  seek 
upon  her  face.  And,  in  that  moment,  he  saw  that  she 
was  exquisitely  beautiful. 

After  this,  he  had  seen  her  when,  and  however  it  was 
convenient,  and  they  had  talked — they  always  talked — on 
so  very  many  subjects.  As  time  went  by,  he  always 
felt  good  cheer,  for  at  last,  it  seemed — and  this  meant 
much,  for  Sidney  Wyeth  had  had  much  experience — he 
had  met  the  One  Woman. 

One  day  she  said  to  him,  and  it  was  in  a  tone  that  was 
very  careful:  "You  wrote  The  Tempest,  didn't 
you?"  She  had  guessed  his  secret,  although  the  book 
had  been  published  anonymously — and  he  had  always 
been  guarded  as  to  its  author,  so  he  replied  somewhat 
awkwardly  that  he  had. 

"I  felt  it — was  sure  when  I  began  reading,"  she  said. 
"Because  there  is  something  in  it  about  you  that  you 
never  tell — in  conversation,  but  you  did  in  the  book." 

He  was  silent,  for  he  knew  not  what  to  say  at  that 
moment.  She  resumed: 

"Yes;  and  it  is  that  which  makes  the  book  so  inter 
esting — and  so  sad."  She  fell  silent  then  for  a  time, 
apparently  engrossed  in  deep  thought,  but  with  worried 
and  sad  expression. 

There  were  other  times  she  had  appeared  sad;  times 
when  he  felt  she  could  have  been  happy  and  cheerful  and 
gay.  And  that  to  him  was  ever  a  mystery.  He  wished 
he  could  help  her  out  of  that  way — at  any  time.  .  . 
Some  day  he  would,  too.  He  was  firm  in  this.  .  .  . 

Then  came  the  time  when  he  was  to  leave,  and  he  passed 
her  way  that  day.  From  across  the  street  she  saw  him, 
and  came  at  once  with  hands  outstretched;  but  when 
he  made  known  the  fact  of  his  proposed  departure,  she 
was  downcast,  and  sorrowful  and  sad. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said — and  meant  it.  He  was  too, 
and  said  nothing. 

"I  shall  miss  you — oh,  ever  so  much." 

"I  will  you,  too,  "he  whispered.  She  looked  up  quickly, 
but  what  she  saw  in  his  eyes  made  her  as  quickly 


26  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

turn  away.  They  entered  the  house  and  the  parlor 
where  it  was  dark  for  day-time,  and  sat  together  for  a 
long  while  in  silence.  Presently,  from  the  next  house 
came  the  notes  of  a  piano,  and  some  one  sang  Sweet 
Genevieve.  0,  subtle  art!  It  made  them  both  feel  sad. 
Impulsively  he  arose  and  caught  her  in  his  arms,  when 
the  music  had  changed  to  The  Blue  Danube.  Around 
then,  and  around  they  waltzed,  light-footed  to  the  sweet 
old  tune.  And  as  they  danced,  both  seemed  to  become 
strangely  infected  with  a  wild  exhilaration.  Entranced, 
he  unconsciously  sought  her  eyes  with  an  awakening 
passion,  and  saw  that  she  had  been  transformed  by  the 
music,  and  perhaps  the  dance,  into  a  wild,  elfin-like 
creature,  and  he  looked  away. 

Minutes  went  by  like  seconds  and,  after  a  time,  he 
dared  seek  her  eyes  again,  only  to  see  that  she  had 
grown  more  elfin  still.  And,  as  abruptly  as  it  had  begun, 
the  music  stopped,  and  their  dance  ceased.  They  stood, 
however,  as  though  forgetting  the  embrace,  and  thus 
heard  each  others  hearts  thump  violently.  One  moment 
they  stood  thus,  and  then  a  breath  of  wind  through  the 
open  window,  lifted  a  stray  lock  of  her  hair  and  laid  it 
against  his  cheek.  He  was  intoxicated  by  its  effect,  and 
then  suddenly  he  had  lost  all  composure.  He  crushed 
her  to  him,  close,  closer,  and,  in  bold  defiance  of  all 
conventionality,  he  kissed  her  lips — once,  twice,  three 
times!  She  was  not  angry,  but  struggled,  nevertheless, 
to  be  free.  She  heard  his  voice  then,  low,  strained, 
palpitating,  and  with  soul  on  fire:  "Mildred!"  Again 
he  cried,  "Mildred!  0,  my  Mildred!"  She  swayed  help 
lessly.  "I -",  but  she  got  no  further.  He  had 

caught  sight  of  her  eyes,  helpless;  but  with  a  weak 
appeal,  as  her  lips  faltered: 

"Please  don't!"  And  in  spite  of  his  mad  desire,  and 
the  words  he  could  have  then  sung  like  the  poets,  he 
hesitated,  and  for  some  reason,  for  which  he  could  not 
quite  fully  account,  allowed  her  to  disengage  herself. 

Freed  now,  she  took  several  steps,  and  when  at  some 
distance  she  paused,  and  regarded  him  with  forced 
defiance;  but  behind  it,  he  caught  again  that  sad  dis- 


THE  BARRIER  27 

traction.  "What  is  it,"  he  uttered,  almost  aloud.  And 
then,  intuitively,  he  knew  she  was  unhappy — aye,  miser 
able.  "I  must  help  her,"  said  he  beneath  his  breath; 
but  before  he  had  decided  how,  he  seemed  to  hear  a 
voice  saying:  "No,  not  yet  because, — well,  you  can't!1' 
The  strains  of  music  again  came  floating  through  the 
open  window.  He  was  not  aware  of  his  gaze;  but  some 
thing  in  his  expression  seemed  to  inspire  her  confidence; 
for,  involuntarily  she  turned  and  started  in  his  direction. 
She  took  only  a  step  or  two,  when  she  abruptly  halted; 
paused  hesitatingly,  uncertainly,  with  her  thin  lips  com 
pressed,  hands  clinched,  and  her  head  thrown  back  in  an 
obvious  effort.  But  her  throat  swelled  almost  to  choking, 
as  she  withheld  something  she  seemed  mad  to  say.  An 
expression  of  superhuman  effort  seemed  suddenly  to  be 
exerted,  and  suddenly  whirling,  without  a  word,  she 
silently  quit  the  room. 

He  was  aroused  now  from  his  re  very  by  "All  a-bo-ar-d: 
Cincinnati  and  the  South,"  and  an  hour  later,  he  was 
whirling  southward  over  snowladen  fields  to  his  Arcadia. 

Cincinnati  rose  about  him  at  eight  o'clock  that  evening, 
as  he  emerged  from  the  union  station  and  started  on  his 
fateful  quest.  The  snow,  ground  to  slush  by  thousands  of 
wheels,  made  the  hard  streets  filthy.  He  scurried  across, 
and  caught  a  car  that  took  him  within  two  blocks  of 
where  she  lived.  Progress  was  slow,  but  only  seemingly, 
for  he  was  so  impatient.  It  seemed  fully  an  hour  before  he 
left  it,  although  it  was  not  fifteen  minutes.  Along  the 
poorly  lighted  street  he  rushed  in  breathless  haste.  His 
heart  kept  up  a  tattoo  that  disturbed  him,  and  he  heard 
himself  muttering:  "Sidney  Wyeth,  what's  the  matter? 
Why  do  you  feel  this  way?  Pshaw!  You  ought  surely  to 
be  happy,  calm  and  imperious.  Mildred  Latham  loves 
you — and  she  needs  you;  but  much  she  does  with  such 
nerves!"  He  braced  himself  as  he  neared  the  house,  and 
pictured  himself  in  the  next  hour.  She  would  be  in  his 
arms — and  all  would  be  over — but  the  happiness.  This 
picture  became  so  vivid,  that  for  a  time  it  served  to 
make  him  forget  his  nerves. 


28  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

And  now  he  had  come  unto  the  house,  the  house  of  his 
treasure,  and  within  all  was  silent.  Strangely,  a  feeling 
came  over  him  of  an  approaching  doom.  Before  him, 
shivering  in  the  cold  night,  sat  an  old  woman,  a  hag.  She 
looked  at  him  out  of  one  evil  old  eye,  and  he  shuddered 
noticeably.  She  was  uncouth  and  unwelcome.  "What's 
she  doing  here?"  he  muttered. 

"Does — ah — Miss  Mildred  Latham  live  here?"  He 
ventured  at  last. 

"Yes,"  snapped  the  hag,  and  appeared  more  evil  still. 

"Thank  you,"  he  murmured  with  forced  courtesy,  but 
very  uneasy.  Drawing  his  card,  he  held  it  out  to  her, 
with:  "Kindly  take  this  and  inform  her  that  a  gentle 
man — a  friend — would  be  glad  to  speak  with  her."  The 
old  hag  crushed  it  in  her  bony  palm,  and  spat  out  five 
short  words.  .  .  .  But,  oh,  what  mean,  cruel,  hurting 
little  words! 

He  reeled  in  spite  of  his  strength,  then  stood  like  a 
statue,  frozen  to  the  spot. 

"The  night  was  cold,  and  dark  and  dreary;"  but  to 
Sidney  Wyeth  it  was  hot— suffocating  in  those  next 
moments.  His  jaw  dropped  as  he  started  to  speak,  but 
the  words  failed  to  come.  After  a  time,  the  elements  began 
to  clear,  but  left  him  weak.  He  turned  with  a  savage 
gripping  at  his  heart,  and  stumbled  back  in  the  direction 
from  whence  he  had  come. 

"Oh,  Mildred!"  he  wailed.  "Mildred,  Mildred!  I 

can't  believe  it.  ...  I  can  never,  oh,  never and 

I  loved  you  so!"  On  and  on  he  went;  at  times  walking, 
other  times  stumbling;  but  always  uttering  incoherent 
sentences.  "It  can't  be  true — it  isn't  true!  That  old 
hag — spiteful  creature,"  he  now  growled  distractedly, — 
"lied!  I'll  go  back,  curse  her!  I'll  go  back  and  prove 
her  the  liar  she  is."  He  halted,  staggered  drunkenly 
against  a  building,  and  then  abruptly  turned  his  face  in 
the  direction  from  whence  he  had  come.  But,  'ere  he 
had  gone  far,  he  desisted.  Believe  those  words  or  not, 
something  forbade  this  step.  Weaker  than  ever,  torn, 
distracted,  and  mentally  prostrated,  he  paused  and  leaned 


THE  BARRIER  29 

against  a  building,  and  for  a  long  time  gave  up  to  utter 
misery. 

Our  pen  fails  here  to  describe  fully  those  conflicting 
moments.  All  that  he  had  lived  for  in  those  days, 
and  all  that  he  had  recently  hoped  for,  seemed  to  have 
been  swept  forever  from  him  in  that  one  moment.  After 
an  interminable  spell  of  mental  blankness,  a  sentence  he 
had  once  been  fond  of  quoting,  and  which  he  had  taken 
from  Haggard's  Pearl  Maiden,  came  back  to  him  out  of  a 
remote  past.  It  was  this:  "  With  time,  most  men  become 
used  to  disaster  and  rebuff.  A  colt  that  seems  to  break  its 
neck  at  the  crack  of  a  whip,  will  hobble  at  last  to  the 
knacker,  unmoved  from  a  thousand  blows  rained  upon 
him."  So,  presently,  with  a  tired,  wearied  sigh,  he  gath 
ered  himself  together,  and,  with  a  last  despairing  look  in 
the  direction  of  the  fateful  number,  he  passed  down  the 
dark  street,  and  disappeared  in  the  direction  of  The 
Jackson  House. 

"Wonder  what's  the  matter  wi'  d'  kid  t'night?"  said 
Jackson  to  his  consort,  as  she  looked  up  inquiringly  when 
he  re-entered  the  room,  after  showing  Wyeth  to  his  bed. 

"I  wonder",  she  commented  thoughtfully.  "He's 
always  so  cheerful  and  pleasant  when  around.  He 
walked  in  here  like  a  ghost  tonight.  Now  I  wonder  what 
is  the  matter?" 

It  was  late  the  following  morning  when  Jackson  chanced 
to  be  passing,  and  peeped  into  the  room  occupied  by  his 
friend,  who  had  acted  so  strangely  the  night  before.  The 
coverlets  had  not  been  turned  back,  altho  the  bed  was 
sunk  in  the  middle,  as  if  someone  had  tossed  restlessly 
about  over  it  the  night  before.  Jackson  wondered  again. 
But  at  that  hour,  Sidney  Wyeth  was  on  a  train  that  was 
speeding  southward  into  Dixie. 

So  it  happened  that  the  hero  of  this  story  went 
forth  into  a  land  which  is  a  part  of  our  country.  .  .  . 
A  part  wherein  people  and  environment  are  so  far 
different  from  the  rest,  that  a  great  problem  is 
ever  an  issue.  This  is  the  problem  of  human  beings 


30  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

versus  human  beings.  A  land  wherein  one  race  vies  with 
the  other;  that  other  being  a  multitude  of  black  people, 
and,  as  one  who  reads  this  might  know,  a  people  who, 
once  upon  a  time  had  been  slaves,  chattels,  and  who 
for  fifty  and  a  few  years  have  been  free.  That  time, 
however,  has  not  been,  as  we  might  appreciate,  suffi 
cient  to  eliminate  many  things  hereditary. 

And  what  came  to  pass  upon  this  journey;  the  things 
he  discovered,  the  one  he  again  met,  of  what  had  resulted, 
due  to  the  machinations  of  a  pious,  evil  genius,  is  the 
story  I  have  to  tell. 


CHAPTER  TWO 

Attalia 

"Heah!  Heah!  Don't  get  on  that  cah!"  cried  the 
conductor  the  following  morning,  as  Sidney  Wyeth  was 
climbing  aboard  the  Jim  Crow  car  of  the  Palm  Leaf 
Limited,  bound  for  Attalia.  He  backed  up  and  looked 
about  him  in  some  surprise,  and  than  demanded  the 
reason  why  he  shouldn't  get  aboard  that  "cah". 

"I  thought  I  tole  you  once  we  had  an  extra  heavy 
train,  and  no  colored  passengers  allowed;  but  since  I  see 
yu',  now  I  see  you  ain't  the  same  fellah  that  was  here 
awhile  ago."  And  then,  in  a  few  words,  he  explained 
that,  owing  to  the  rush  of  people  to  the  south  during 
those  first  days  of  January,  the  Jim  Crow  section  of  the 
train  had  been  dispensed  with  for  that  day.  He  explained 
further  that  a  second  section  of  the  same  train  would 
follow  shortly.  As  it  would,  in  all  probability,  pass  them 
at  Lexington,  Sidney,  with  a  mumble  of  thanks,  gathered 
up  his  grips  and  returned  to  the  waiting  room,  catching 
the  same  an  hour  later. 

Kentucky  soon  lay  before  him.  As  far  as  eye  could 
see,  a  snowy  mantle  covered  the  ground,  for  it  was  winter. 
Presently,  countless  rows  of  frame  buildings  appeared. 
A  new  brick  station,  which  extended  for  some  length 
along  the  track,  gave  the  traveler  welcome. 

When  the  train  came  to  a  stop,  Sidney's  attention  was 
arrested  by  the  sight  of  a  creature  that  may  have  been 
called  a  man,  but  gave  every  evidence  of  being  an  ape. 

"I  wonder,"  said  he,  to  a  fellow  passenger,  "do  those 
things  grow  'round  here?" 

They  both  enjoyed  a  laugh. 

He  was  now  in  a  land  in  which  a  portion  of  the  people, 
apparently,  possessed  little  sense  of  humor,  judging  from 
the  way  his  jokes  were  accepted. 

31 


32  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

On  the  car  were  two  women,  among  the  half  dozen  or 
so  colored  passengers.  Sidney  overheard  one  of  them  say 
to  the  other: 

"I'm  from  No'th  C'lina;  but  I  be'n  in  Oklahoma  two 
ye's.  I'm  go'n  back  home  t'  stay.  Whe'  you  from?" 

"Tennesee,  Knoxville.  I'm  livin'  in  Bloomington, 
Illinois,  now." 

They  looked  inquiringly  in  the  direction  of  Wyeth,  and 
presently  he  was  drawn  into  the  conversation.  The  latter 
possessed  fine  sense  of  humor,  and  when  he  found  these 
people  so  serious,  he  took  delight  in  joking. 

"Whe'  you  from?"  they  inquired,  with  all  that  is 
southern  and  hospitable  in  their  tone. 

"From  the  Rosebud  Country,  South  Dakota,"  he  replied. 
Their  faces  were  a  study.  Somewhere  in  the  years  gone 
by  they  might  have  heard  of  that  state  in  school,  but 
the  Rosebud  Country  was  Greek  to  them. 

"0-oh,"  they  echoed,  and  then  looked  at  each  other 
and  back  at  him.  Presently  one  of  them  inquired: 
"Where  is  that?" 

"In  Africa,"  he  answered,  but  they  did  not  catch  the 
joke,  and  to  this  day,  they  speak  of  the  man  they  met 
from  the  Dark  Continent. 

At  that  moment,  the  train  was  crossing  a  stream  over 
the  highest  bridge  Sidney  had  ever  seen,  with  possibly 
one  or  two  exceptions.  It  seemed  a  thousand  feet  to  the 
crystal  water  below,  and  every  eye  was  fixed  upon  it. 
The  porter,  a  long,  lank,  laughing  creature,  scion  of  the 
south  and  some  porter,  seeing  an  opportunity  to  draw 
attention,  rushed  up  in  a  Shakesperian  pose,  and  related 
dramatically,  the  incident  of  an  intoxicated  man,  who, 
while  crossing  that  very  stream,  fell,  of  a  sudden,  smack 
dab  over-board,  right  into  it.  In  concluding,  he  looked 
about  him  more  dramatically  than  ever,  as  the  many 
"0-ohs,"  and  "Mys!"  greeted  his  terrible  story.  And 
Sidney  Wyeth,  with  eyes  wide  open,  inquired  if  he  got  wet. 

"  Jes'  listen  at  that,"  they  cried  in  chorus,  and  the  joke 
was  lost. 

Down,  down  the  train  whirled  into  the  bowels  of  Dixie. 
Far  away  to  the  east,  rising  gray  and  ghostlike  above  the 


ATTALIA  33 

mists,  the  pine  covered  Cumberland  Range  appeared  and 
reappeared  in  the  distance.  Outlined  like  grim  sentinels, 
the  scene,  to  the  hero  of  this  story,  recalled  the  many 
tragedies  of  which  those  mountains  were  the  back-ground. 
The  moon-shiners,  the  feudists,  the  hill-billies  and  the 
rough-necks,  always  had  a  haven  there. 

The  puffing  of  many,  many  locomotives,  the  sight  of 
buildings,  and  the  glare  of  electric  lights  gave  evidence 
that  they  had  reached  a  large  city.  Chattanooga,  city 
of  southern  trunk  lines,  and  railroad  center,  now  greeted 
his  eye. 

He  spent  one  night  there,  and  the  next  day,  resumed 
his  journey  toward  that  most  conspicious  of  all  southern 
towns,  Attalia.  It  was  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  and 
more  by  rail.  The  train  became  more  crowded  as  it  neared 
his  destination,  while  the  people  grew  more  cosmopolitan. 
One  of  these,  a  black  man,  entered  at  one  of  the  many 
stations,  and  greeted  Wyeth  pleasantly,  inquiring  where 
he  was  headed  for.  Wyeth  answered  Attalia,  and  his 
companion  became  very  sociable. 

"Understand,"  said  Wyeth,  after  a  moment — the  other 
had  possessed  himself  of  a  portion  of  the  seat  upon  which 
he  sat — "that  Attalia  is  one  of  the  best  towns  in  the 
south,  and  has  one  of  the  finest  stations  in  the  country." 

"La'gest  'n'  finest  in  the  wo'ld,"  said  the  other,  with  a 
show  of  pride.  He  was  a  resident  of  the  state  of  which 
Attalia  was  the  capital,  and  was,  furthermore,  a  preacher. 
Wyeth  didn't  care  to  argue,  so  let  it  be  the  largest  and 
said: 

"That's  wonderful!  I  hear  also,  that  it  is  a  great 
commercial  center  as  well,  and  that  the  city  is  growing 
like  a  mushroom." 

"Oh,  yeh,"  said  he.  "Out-side  Noo  Yo'k,  it's  the 
busiest  and  best  town  in  the  United  States.  Yes,  yeh," 
he  went  on  thoughtfully,  "Attalia  is  sho  a  mighty  city. 
Eve*  been  theah?" 

"Not  for  more  than  ten  years,"  replied  Sidney. 

"Indeed!  Well,  well,  I  mus'  say  you'll  ha'dly  recognize 
it  as  the  same." 

They  were  now  approaching  the^embryo  city.    Clouds 


34  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

of  smoke,  and  the  whistling  of  innumerable  locomotives 
filled  the  air.  Wyeth  began  making  preparation  to  leave 
the  train,  when  the  other  touched  him,  saying:  "No 
hurry,  my  deah  suh,  no  hurry.  Be's  a  long  time  yet 
befo'  we  'rives  in  de  station,  be's  a  long  time  yet." 

"Well,  well!"    the  other  exclaimed,  in  some  surprise. 

"Oh,  Attalia's  a  mighty  city,  a  great  city.  Wait  until 
you  see  Plum  street  'n'  the  sky-scrapers." 

Meanwhile  the  train  had  arrived,  and  stood  outside  the 
station,  through  which  it  had  just  passed.  It  was  indeed 
a  large  and  imposing  structure.  As  it  rose  behind  them, 
under  the  bright  sunlight,  with  its  many  cornices  glittering 
as  so  many  diamonds,  it  was  truly  a  city  pride.  From 
where  the  train  stood,  the  city  lay  like  a  great  scroll,  and 
vanished  in  the  distance.  Smoke  and  dust  filled  the  air, 
and  hovered  over  the  medley  of  buildings  like  a  dull,  red 
cloud.  Rising  in  uncertain  lines,  as  if  to  escape  the 
gloom,  a  line  of  sky-scrapers  appeared  in  the  back 
ground.  "Those  must  be  on  Plum  street,"  mused  Sidney, 
as  he  looked  about  for  a  conveyance. 

Besides  being  the  capital  of  the  state,  and  the  greatest 
commercial  city  southeast  of  the  Mississippi,  Attalia  is 
the  city  of  conventions,  the  southern  center  for  insurance, 
a  progressive  journalistic  city,  and  a  uniform  town.  It  is 
also  a  center  for  the  education  of  Negroes,  since  it  has  a 
number  of  colleges  supported  by  northern  philanthropy. 
Yet  the  city  is  unable  to  maintain  a  proficient  and  com 
plete  course  of  education  for  its  many  colored  children. 
Unfortunately  for  the  Negroes,  when  the  white  schools 
are  amply  provided  for,  not  enough  is  left  for  the  proper 
training  of  its  black  population,  which  constitutes  one- 
third  of  the  whole. 

Sidney  did  not  fail  to  take  note  of  the  fact,  as  he 
passed  through  the  station,  that,  contrary  to  previous 
reports,  the  colored  waiting  room  was  cleanly  kept, 
almost  as  well  as  that  of  the  white  race.  White-coated 
flunkies  flitted  about  nimbly  in  prompt  attention  to  the 
weary  traveler,  in  spite  of  an  air  of  sleepiness. 

Presently,  Wyeth  made  inquiry  regarding  conveyance. 
No  sooner  had  he  done  so,  than  he  was  deluged  with 


ATTALIA  35 

solicitations  from  a  score  or  more  cabmen,  who  seemed 
literally  to  raise  out  of  the  floor.  They  would  take  him 
in  jig-time  anywhere  he  wanted  to  go. 

"But  that's  it,"  he  said  in  a  confused  tone.  "I  don't 
know  exactly  where  I  want  to  go." 

"Deed,  suh,  I  c;n  take  yu'  any  wha',  jes'  any  wha'  'f 
you'll  jes'  name  de  place." 

Not  being  able,  apparently,  to  make  him  understand 
that  he  was  a  stranger,  unacquainted  with  the  city,  he 
presently  settled  on  the  charge,  bundled  in,  and  ordered 
to  be  taken  to  the  best  colored  neighborhood,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  he  was  being  trundled  on  his  way. 

They  turned  into  a  street,  after  a  block  or  two,  that 
happened  to  be  one  end  of  the  leading  business  thorough 
fare.  On  a  corner  post,  Sidney  read  Walthill.  The  cab 
took  him  up  this  street,  surrounded  on  either  side  with 
the  many  busy  shops  and  people,  and  it  continued  until 
a  viaduct  was  reached.  Attalia's  broad  way  was  just 
ahead.  It  was  a  wide  street,  and  yet  not  wide  enough. 
It  had  been  made  wider  recently,  and  in  making  it  so, 
the  sidewalks  had  perforce  been  made  narrower.  They 
had  not  been  sufficiently  wide  before,  and  now  this  threw 
many  pedestrians  into  the  street,  where  they  walked  along 
much  slower  than  in  Cincinnati  even.  As  the  cab  rolled 
along,  Sidney  observed  that  the  street  was  considerably 
wider  after  some  distance,  and  this  was  the  business 
section.  To  the  right  and  to  the  left,  in  fact  in  every 
direction,  buildings,  brick  and  stone,  concrete,  stucco  and 
an  occasional  frame,  stood,  here  low,  there  high,  and  still 
higher,  even  to  twenty  stories.  As  he  looked,  the  setting 
sun  played  subtly  about  the  topmost  peaks.  Presently, 
the  cab  turned  into  Audubon  Avenue. 

This  street  sloped  down  hill  for  many  blocks,  and  when 
the  cab  had  made  its  abrupt  turn  further  on,  Sidney 
observed  a  large,  red,  brick  building  with  stone  cornices 
rising  skyward.  Adjoining  this,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  outline  of  still  another  building,  apparently  unfinished. 
Strangely  enough,  he  felt  this  to  be  the  property  of  black 
people.  On  down  the  street  the  cab  rolled. 

It  was  a  street  quite  wide  enough,  and  paved  in  part 


36  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

with  cobble  stones,  and  further  on  with  asphalt.  Glancing 
from  right  to  left,  as  he  proceeded,  he  saw  that  it  was 
given  over  largely  to  business  conducted  by  Negroes, 
Jews,  Italians  and  Greeks. 

Presently,  his  wandering  gaze  took  in  the  proportions 
of  a  small  book  shop,  before  which  stood  a  tall,  lean 
Negro,  whom  he  surmised  rightly  to  be  the  proprietor. 
In  the  window,  displayed  conspiciously  and  artistically, 
were  numerous  books  by  Negro  authors  which  he  had 
read,  and,  of  course,  some  he  had  not. 

And  still  he  was  trundled  on.  His  gaze  met  the  sight 
of  a  mammoth  stone  church,  where  he  saw  many  colored 
men  standing  about  the  front.  Some  were  brown,  while 
others  were  yellow,  and  still  others  were  almost  white. 
They  were  preachers,  he  knew,  for  all  were  fat.  Only 
preachers  were  always  so,  he  recalled,  and  that's  why 
he  knew.  Across  another  street  and  on  the  same  side, 
they  came  abreast  of  the  structure  that  had  arrested  his 
attention  before.  The  first  portion  rose  to  only  two 
stories,  but  was  so  artistically  constructed,  that  it  caught 
his  attention,  and  commanded  his  admiration.  Next 
to  this,  the  other  portion  reached  to  six  stories,  and, 
as  he  came  to  the  front,  he  viewed  it  very  carefully. 
On  one  side  of  a  wide  entry,  over  which  was  written 
many  words  which  he  could  not  decipher,  was  a  first 
class  barber  shop  where  black  men  were  being  shaved. 
On  the  other  side,  a  bank  occupied  much  space,  and  this, 
he  observed,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  was  conducted 
by  black  people — no,  they  were  between  and  betwixt, 
but  that  does  not  matter,  they  belonged  to  that  race. 
At  the  rear  he  saw  elevators  moving  to  and  fro,  while 
the  entry  was  filled  with  these  same  folk.  His  bosom 
swelled  at  the  sight,  for  he  was  proud  of  his  people. 

"Heah's  a  place  you  might  look  ovah,  deah  brudder," 
said  the  cabman  at  last,  as  he  halted  before  an  old  frame 
structure,  across  the  front  of  which  was  written  in  large 
letters 

THE  BIXLEY  HOUSE 

Sidney  was  not  favorably  impressed. 
"How  you  lak  it?"  asked  the  cabman. 


ATTALIA  37 

"Nix,"  he  replied.     "Try  another." 

The  horse  was  turned  about,  and  they  journeyed  back 
over  the  same  street  from  whence  they  had  come.  Two 
blocks  were  thus  covered,  and  then  they  turned  into 
a  street  that  intersected,  and  stopped  before  another 
place  less  impressive  looking.  At  this  point,  the  cabman 
suggested  a  lady  friend  of  his,  who  kept  nice  rooms,  and 
to  this  he  was  straightway  driven.  He  was  satisfied  at 
last,  paid  his  fee,  and  in  due  time  was  fairly  well  installed. 

Sometime  later,  Sidney  went  forth  on  a  tour  of  in 
spection.  The  first  place  he  decided  to  visit  was  the 
book  store,  where  he  had  seen  the  serious  looking  man  at 
the  front.  He  turned  out  to  be  so,  very  much  so,  as 
Sidney  learned  in  after  months.  His  name  was  Tompkins, 
and  he  was  very  affable,  even  pleasant. 

"A-hem.  Glad  to  know  you,  Mr.  Wyeth,"  he  said, 
accepting  the  introduction.  When  Sidney  stated  the 
nature  of  his  business,  he  answered  his  many  questions 
very  pompously,  and  further  said,  that  the  colored  people 
of  the  city  had  an  inclination  for  literature. 

Sidney,  however,  began  to  feel,  after  more  questioning, 
that  Tompkins  was  stretching  things,  and  that  his  state 
ment,  that  the  colored  people  were  great  readers,  was 
largely  exaggerated.  It  was,  as  we  shall  see  later;  but 
for  the  present,  he  thanked  Tompkins,  and  promised  to 
drop  in  again. 

When  he  had  dined  at  one  of  the  many  little  restaurants, 
he  wandered  back  into  the  business  section  of  the  city. 
He  failed  to  recognize  any  of  the  places  he  had  once 
known,  which  proved  conclusively  that  Attalia  had 
progressed.  He  found  himself  on  Plum  street  again, 
through  which  he  walked  and  reentered  Walthill,  and, 
after  seeing  many  of  the  sights,  entered  a  large  book  store, 
where  he  inquired  for  a  volume  he  had  long  desired  to 
read — rather,  he  inquired  of  a  large,  fat  man,  whether  he 
had  it.  The  other  looked  around  a  spell,  then  replied: 

"We  sho  God  has,"  and  stood  waiting  undecidedly. 
Presently  he  held  it  toward  Wyeth,  who,  somewhat 
hesitatingly,  looked  irrelevantly  through  the  pages.  He 
was  not  sure,  whether  it  was  customary  to  take  it  in  his 
hands. 


38  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"All  right,"  he  said,  and  reached  in  his  pocket  for  the 
money. 

"Do  you-ah — wish  it?"  the  other  inquired,  still 
hesitating. 

"Sure,"  Sidney  replied.  "That's  why  I  called  for  it." 
He  was  obviously  surprised,  and  expressed  the  fact  in  his 
eyes.  The  other  observed  this,  and  made  haste  to 
apologize: 

"Ce'tainly,  ce'tainly.  Beg  yo'  pa'don.  Not  many 
cullud  people  buy  works  of  fiction,  or  anything  besides 
an  occasional  Bible,  school  books  and  stationery.  That 
is  why  I  was  undecided  whether  you  wanted  to  buy  it 
or  not." 

"  Indeed ! "  echoed  Sidney,  taken  suddenly  aback.  Then 
said:  "I  read  a  great  deal  myself." 

The  clerk  observed  him  closely  for  a  moment,  and  then 
said:  "You  don't  live  in  these  parts?" 

"No." 

"And  you  read  a  great  deal?    Where  are  you  from?" 

He  was  told. 

"That  accounts  for  it,"  said  the  other,  proceeding  to 
wrap  up  the  book. 

"Accounts  for  what?"   curiously. 

"Your  being  a  reader." 

"I  don't  understand.  .  .  Don't  the  colored  people  down 
here  read  a  great  deal  also?" 

"No,"  said  the  other  simply. 

"Well,  I  declare!"  said  Sidney  in  surprise.  "I  have 
only  two  hours  or  less  ago,  been  told  by  a  book-seller 
that  they  do." 

"Lordy  me!    Who  told  you  that?" 

"Tompkins.     The—" 

"Tompkins  is  a  booster.  He's  all  right,  though,"  said 
the  other,  with  a  low,  amused  laugh.  But  Sidney's 
curiosity  was  aroused,  and  he  continued: 

"There's  a  multitude  of  teachers  and  preachers,  and  I 
should  think  they  would  buy  lots  of  current  literature  to 
keep  themselves  informed  for  their  work;  but  perhaps 
they  are  not  so  well  paid,  and  get  it  from  the  library." 


ATTALIA  39 

The  other  appeared  perplexed  for  a  moment,  but  said 
presently,  without  looking  up: 

"They  have  no  library  of  their  own,  and  the  city 
library  is  not  open  to  colored  people,  but  they  do  not 
seem  to  be  very  anxious  for  books.  The  teachers,  and 
the  preachers-  He  threw  up  his  hands  in  a  gesture 
of  despair.  "You'll  find  out  for  yourself.  You  are,  I  see, 
a  keen  observer,  and  you'll  find  out." 

Sidney  left  the  store  in  a  reflective  frame  of  mind. 
"I  didn't  believe  Tompkins,"  he  muttered,  as  he  walked 
back  in  the  direction  of  Audubon  Avenue.  Just  then 
he  glanced  to  his  left,  into  the  largest  barber  shop  he  had 
ever  seen.  It  was  for  white  people,  but  conducted  by  a 
colored  man.  It  was  not  only  the  largest  he  had  ever  seen, 
but  the  finest,  the  most  artistic.  He  forgot,  for  the  time, 
what  he  had  just  been  told,  and  which  was  causing  him 
some  concern,  and  again  he  felt  his  breast  swell. 

There  was  much  to  be  learned  about  his  people  that 
he  now  realized  he  did  not  know;  and  yet,  surrounding 
it  all  was  a  peculiar  mystery  that  he  decided  to  solve  for 
himself.  He  did  so,  but  that  remains  to  be  told. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

Next  Day — Discoveries 

At  eight-thirty  the  following  morning,  Sidney  set  forth, 
carrying  a  small  case  containing  a  half  dozen  books.  His 
purpose  was  to  feel  out  the  city  from  a  practical  point  of 
view.  He  had  been  told  that  the  better  class  of  Negroes 
could  be  found  by  walking  down  Audubon  Avenue,  as 
far  as  the  residence  section.  So  he  followed  it  until  the 
business  had  been  left  blocks  to  the  rear.  At  the  end  of 
the  paved  street  he  turned  into  a  house.  It  was  a  very 
sumptuous  affair,  with  an  attractive  lawn  before  it.  He 
was  told  by  a  passerby  that  it  was  the  home  of  a  club 
waiter.  He  ventured  up  to  the  front  door,  and,  upon  its 
being  opened  by  a  mulatto  woman,  apparently  the 
waiter's  wife,  he  turned  on  his  spiel.  She  listened  to  it 
patiently,  even  speaking  some  words  in  praise,  as  he 
explained  the  narrative  in  brief,  but  he  failed  to  make  a 
sale.  He  tried  more  subtle  arts,  but  in  vain.  And  then 
she  told  him  frankly  that  their  finances  would  not  permit 
her  to  purchase  the  volume.  This  excuse  always  made 
Wyeth  desist  from  further  effort. 

He  turned  into  the  next  house,  and  the  next,  and  the 
next,  until  a  half  dozen  had  been  made,  but  with  the  same 
result.  Since  he  had  invariably  sold  to  three-fourths  of 
the  people  whom  he  approached,  he  was  not  nearly  so 
confident  by  this  time.  These  people  lived  in  and  owned 
homes  that  were  a  pride,  and  it  was  not  that  they  did 
not  wish  to  buy;  people  so  easily  approached  can  be 
expected,  in  a  large  part,  to  fall  victim;  but  'ere  long  it 
became  more  clear  to  him.  They  were  not  able.  It  was 
well  that  he  perceived  this;  for  hope  of  success  was 
small,  if  it  depended  upon  purchasers  here.  Most  of  the 
people  he  found  in  these  homes  were  dependent  upon  a 
very  small  salary.  The  cost  of  living  was  as  high  here 

40 


NEXT  DAY— DISCOVERIES  41 

as  in  the  north,  in  fact,  the  ordinary  commodities  were 
higher.  The  sums  they  were  receiving  would  not  be 
considered  sufficient  to  care  for  the  same  people  in  the 
north,  therefore,  why  should  it  here?  This  was  contrary 
again  to  what  Sidney  had  always  been  told. 

Presently,  he  happened  upon  a  letter  carrier.  No  time 
was  lost  here.  This  man  was  paid  for  his  work,  so  he 
forthwith  became  a  victim  of  the  most  artful  spiel,  and 
bought  the  book,  cash.  This  served  to  spur  Sidney  to 
renew  his  efforts,  and  he  attacked  those  he  approached 
more  vigorously.  For  a  time  he  met  with  no  more  success. 

He  had  a  lunch  at  a  nearby  restaurant,  of  pigs  feet  and 
sweet  potato  custard.  After  an  hour,  he  resumed  his 
efforts.  And  this  began  his  discoveries. 

Entering  a  yard,  he  came  up  the  steps  of  a  house  from 
the  back  way.  He  passed  a  refrigerator,  and  crossed  the 
porch  to  knock  at  the  door.  But — a  bottle  of  Kentucky's 
John  Barleycorn  calmly  rested  upon  this  same  refrigerator. 

The  door  at  which  he  knocked  was  opened  presently, 
and  he  was  invited  to  enter,  which  he  did;  but,  when 
leaving  by  the  same  way,  after  selling  another  book  for 
cash,  "John"  was  gone. 

At  the  next  house,  his  customer  was  a  tall  woman  of 
middle  age  and  dark  skinned.  She  drew  him  adroitly 
into  a  prolonged  conversation,  and  then  bought  the  book. 

Now,  Attalia  is  a  prohibition  town  in  a  southern 
prohibition  state.  Yes,  it  is — and  it  isn't.  When  Sidney 
Wyeth  left  that  house  that  afternoon,  he  had  spent  part 
of  what  he  received  for  the  book,  for  beer  and  whiskey. 
Moreover,  he  was  told  that  more  than  seventy-five  places 
on  Audubon  Avenue  were  engaged  likewise,  and  in  the 
city  all — but  that  is  a  matter  for  conjecture! 

Obviously,  prohibition  did  not  prohibit — but  more  of 
this  later  in  the  story. 

That  evening,  while  dining,  he  became  acquainted  with 
Ferguson  and  Thurman,  who  will,  for  a  time,  occupy  a 
part  in  the  development  of  this  plot. 

Ferguson  was  a  preacher,  but  at  this  time — and  for 
some  time — had  not  preached.  He  admitted  painting  to 


42  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

be  more  profitable  from  a  financial  point  of  view.  He 
complained,  however,  that  if  the  "New  Freedom"  con 
tinued  in  power  much  longer  at  Washington,  and  with 
the  way  things  "was  a-goin',"  he  would  have  to  give  that 
up  and  go  back  to  pickin'  cotton. 

"They  ain'  nothin'  in  preachin'  no  mo',  that's  a  sho 
thing." 

"I  do  not  agree  with  you  on  that  score,"  said  Sidney; 
"for,  from  what  I  have  learned  already  in  regard  to  these 
parts,  there  must  apparently  be  more  money  in  preaching 
than  anything  else,  judging  from  the  number  of  preachers. 
And  how  fat  they  all  appear!"  Ferguson  looked  up 
quickly  at  this  remark,  and  as  quickly  down  at  himself. 

"I  didn'  get  this  flesh  preachin',  I  assuah  you,"  he 
retorted,  with  flushed  face.  And  after  a  pause,  he  went 
on  with  some  heat: 

"But  that's  what  don'  sp'iled  preachin';  too  many 
lazy  nigga's  a-graftin  off  a  de  people!"  But  Ferguson,  as 
Wyeth  learned  later,  was  something  of  a  pessimist,  and 
predicted  all  kinds  of  deplorable  things.  And  it  was  at 
this  moment  that  a  dejected  creature  made  his  appearance. 
He  was  bald  headed,  bowlegged,  but,  notwithstanding 
these  possible  deficiencies  in  his  make-up,  aggressive. 
His  name  was  Thurman,  and,  said  he,  between  bites  of 
sweet  potato  pie: 

"Aw,  nigga; — youah  allus  a-p'dictin' — som'thin'  aw 
ful! — To — heah  you  tell  it, — since  the  democrats — has  got 
hit'  powah — cawse  a  buncha  crazy  nigga's — didn'  know 
how  t'  vote — at  dat  aih  convention  in  Chicawgo — the 
world  is — liable  to  end  tomorra'!" 

"It  mought! — It  mought; — 'n'  'f  it  did — you  be  one — a 
d'  fust — t'  bu'n  in  hell — too;  but  don't  you  'dress  me 
lak  dat  no  mo' — in  sech  distressful  terms!  You  autta  be 
'shamed  a-yo'  se'f." 

And  he  munched  pie  for  a  time,  uninterrupted  by 
speech. 

Thurman  only  grunted  unconcernedly. 

"What  are  the  prospects  of  the  colored  people  down 
here  at  the  present  time?"  inquired  Sidney,  hoping  to 
relieve  the  tension;  but  he  could  have  rested  easily  on 


NEXT  DAY— DISCOVERIES  43 

this  score,  for,  as  he  learned  later,  they  carried  on  that 
way  every  night.  That  was  their  diversion;  but  Thur- 
man  was  now  heard  from. 

"HELL!"   he  answered  calmly. 

"Good  Lawd  man!"  cried  Ferguson  shocked.  "What's 
comin'  ovah  you!" 

"Lyin'  'n'  stealing  drinkin'  cawn  liquah  'n'  gittin' 
drunk;  bein'  run  in,  locked  up  and  sent  to  d'  stock-ade 
'n'  chain-gang;"  he  resumed,  ignoring  Ferguson's  shock 
entirely.  Whereupon,  Ferguson  looked  more  distressed 
than  ever;  but  only  wrinkled  his  face  in  a  helpless  frown, 
and  said  nothing. 

"Gee!"  cried  Sidney;  "but  that's  an  awful  prospect." 
All  this  time  Thurman  had  not  smiled,  but  accepted 
everything  as  a  matter  of  course,  from  the  way  he  partook 
of  sweet  potato  pie. 

"You  must  not  pay  any  attention  to  Mr.  Thurman, 
Mister,"  said  the  proprietress,  from  across  the  room. 
She  was  a  patient-faced,  sleepy,  short  woman.  And  now, 
for  the  first  time  Thurman  moved  in  his  seat,  and  took 
exception  to  the  words.  Said  he,  somewhat  loudly,  and 
emphasizing  his  words  with  a  raised  hand: 

"Pay  no  'tention!  Pay  no  'tention;  wull  I  reckon  yu'd 
bettah.  Hump,"  he  deliberated,  pausing  long  enough  to 
fill  his  mouth  with  more  potato:  "Pay  no  'tention  when 
yu'  know  yu'se'f  that  Jedge  Ly'les  's  a  sentincin'  mo' 
nigga's  to  the  stock-ade  'n'  chain-gang  than  he  's  eve'  done 
befo'.  'N'  a  good  reason  he  has  fo'  doin'  so  too!  Lyin', 
doity,  stinkiri,  stealin'  nigga's/'  he  ended  disgustedly. 

Presently,  before  anyone  had  time  to  deny  his  sweeping 
assertion,  he  resumed: 

"Mis'  M'coy,  yu'  know  dem  taters  I  got  frum  you 
tuther  night?"' 

"I  rember  them  quite  well,  Mr.  Thurman,"  she  replied, 
resignedly. 

"I  took  them  taters  home  'n'  put  'm  in  muh  trunk, 
locked  it  'n'  put  th'  key  in  muh  pocket  's  I  allus  do. 
Now  what  yu'  think  happened?"  he  halted,  and  sur 
veyed  the  atmosphere  with  serene  contempt.  "That  low 
down  HT  nigga  in  th'  room  wi'  me,  sneaks  hit'  that  trunk 


44  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

wid  a  duplicate  key,  'n'  steal  eve'  last  one'm!  Jes'  think 
of  it!"  he  emphasized,  with  a  terrible  gesture.  "Stole 
eve1  las'  one  uv'm!  Then  talk  about  nigga'sl" 

"We  did'n'  say  nothin'  'bout  nigga's  would'n'  steal, 
man!"  complained  Ferguson.  "You  jes'  nache'lly  went 
offa  yo'  noodle  widout  'casion." 

During  all  this  conversation,  a  girl  sat  opposite  Sidney. 
She  was  a  dark,  sweet-faced  maiden,  with  an  expression 
that  was  inviting.  Sidney,  happening  to  glance  for  the 
first  time  into  her  face,  smiled  and  nodded.  She  smiled 
back  pleasantly.  Ferguson  and  Thurman  continued  their 
harrangue. 

"They  are  a  pair,"  ventured  Sidney,  to  no  one  in  par 
ticular,  but  the  girl  smiled  and  inquired: 

"Who  are  they?" 

"I  never  saw  them  before,"  he  replied. 

She  observed  him  closely,  and  said  presently,  in  a  very 
demure  voice: 

"Indeed.    Ah— then— you  don't  live  here?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  and  told  her. 

"O-oh,  my,"  she  echoed  tremulously.  "It  must  be 
fine  away  up  in  the  great  northwest.  And — do  you 
expect  to  be  here — er,  some  time?" 

"For  a  few  months  at  least."  Whereupon  she  inquired 
as  to  his  business,  and  he  likewise  inquired  of  hers. 

"I  am  employed  in  service,"  she  said. 

Now  it  happened  that  Sidney  had,  a  few  months 
before,  met  an  agent  in  Dayton,  who  persisted  in  can 
vassing  nowhere  else  but  among  this  class.  He  thought 
of  this,  and  made  inquiry.  He  was  told  in  reply,  that 
practically  all  the  domestics  were  colored. 

"I  would  like  to  see  the  book  you  sell,"  she  said, 
presently.  "If  you  could  bring  it  to  the  number  where 
I  am  employed,  and  if,  after  seeing  it  I  am  pleased  with 
it,  I  would  buy  one."  He  could  not  have  wished  for  any 
thing  better,  and  told  her  so.  Elevating  his  eye  brows 
in  pleased  delight,  he  said: 

"I  most  assuredly  will.  Only  tell  me  how  I  may  get 
there — I'll  make  a  note  of  it,"  and  he  immediately  did  so. 

"Catch  a  Plum  Street  car,"  she  directed,  "and  get  off 


NEXT  DAY— DISCOVERIES  45 

at  West  Eleventh  Street,  walk  a  block  and  a  half  west 
until  you  see  a  large  house  numbered  40.  They  are  Jews, 
so,  should  you  lose  the  number,  inquire  for  Hershes'. 
You  may  call  any  time  after  two  P.  M." 

"I  will  be  there  tomorrow  at  that  hour  if  the  sun  rises, 
and  if  it  doesn't,  I'll  be  there  anyway,"  he  laughed. 
She  was  amused. 

"All  right,"  she  said,  and  took  her  leave. 

The  next  day  was  beautiful;  the  sun  shone  brightly, 
and  the  air  was  soft  and  fragrant.  Plum  Street,  besides 
being  the  leading  business  thoroughfare,  is  likewise  the 
most  imposing  resident  district,  at  its  extreme  end. 
Large  cars,  modern  and  built  of  steel,  thread  their 
way,  not  only  to  the  city  limits,  but  they  penetrate  far 
into  the  country  beyond. 

And  it  was  aboard  one  of  these  modern  conveyances 
that  Sidney  Wyeth  reclined,  observing  the  size  and 
grandeur  of  the  many  magnificent  residences,  that  stood 
back  from  either  side  of  the  street  in  sumptuous  splendor. 
Magnolias  and  an  occasional  palm  adorned  the  yards, 
while  green  grass  and  winter  flowers  filled  the  balmy  air 
with  a  delightful  odor. 

He  alighted  and  found  himself  very  soon  in  the  rear  of 
No.  40.  Success  was  his,  for  he  sold  to  the  girl,  and  three 
more  at  the  same  number,  and  the  next,  and  the  next — and 
still  the  next,  until  darkness  came.  Thus  he  came  in 
touch  with  people  who  were  more  able,  and  positively, 
more  likely  to  buy. 

A  few  days  after  this  he  dropped  in  on  Tompkins. 

"Hello,  my  friend!"  that  worthy  one  said.  "Why 
haven't  you  been  in  to  see  me?  I've  been  thinking  of 
you." 

"Indeed,"  said  Sidney,  in  glad  surprise.  "I've  been 
too  busy,"  he  concluded  shortly. 

"Too  busy!"  echoed  the  other  in  evident  surprise. 
And  then  he  waited  expectantly. 

"Oh,  sure,"  Sidney  smiled,  looking  over  Tompkins' 
supply  of  books,  mostly  Bibles,  for  such  was  the  most 
Tompkins  sold,  as  he  learned. 


48  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

Judging  from  this  book,  they  could  be  counted  upon  the 
fingers  of  one  hand.  One  of  these  was  Sidney  Wyeth. 

Yes,  he  had  gone  forth,  hopeful  and  happy  and  gay, 
and  had  become  a  Negro  pioneer.  So  he  began,  and  did 
a  man's  part  in  the  development  of  that  now  wonderful 
country.  Thus  she  imagined  it,  and  felt  it  must  have 
been.  It  could  not  have  been  otherwise,  because  only 
men  went  west,  to  the  wild  and  undeveloped — and 
stayed.  He  had  stayed  for  ten  years.  How  he  spent 
those  years,  Mildred  Latham  could  imagine.  Through 
the  pages  of  that  narrative,  she  had  followed  his  fortunes 
to  the  climax — the  culmination  of  a  base  intrigue.  What 
a  glorious  feeling  it  must  be,  she  felt,  to  be  a  pioneer; 
to  blaze  the  way  for  others,  that  human  beings  ever 
after,  to  the  end  of  time,  may  live  and  thrive  by  the  right 
of  others'  conquest!  He  had  plowed  the  soil,  turned 
hundreds  of  acres  of  that  wild  land  into  a  state  of  plant 
productivity,  which  should  bear  fruit  for  posterity.  And 
if  Sidney  Wyeth  had  in  the  end  failed,  in  a  way  it  was 
only  after  he  had  done  a  man's  part  in  behalf  of  others. 

But  then  came  the  evil. 

In  the  lives  of  all  men,  the  greatest  thing  is  to  love. 
Sidney  Wyeth  had  hoped,  at  some  time,  to  gain  this 
happiness,  the  love  of  a  woman.  Had  he  earned  it? 
Apparently  not,  from  another's  point  of  view.  That  was 
all  so  singular,  she  thought,  time  and  again.  For 
the  evil  creature,  evil  genius,  was  a  preacher,  a  minister 
of  the  Gospel.  "I  can't  quite  reconcile  myself  to  that 
part  of  it,  yet  I  should,"  she  mused,  now  aloud,  "for  my 
father  is  a  preacher." 

Mildred  Latham's  thoughts  drifted  from  Sidney  Wyeth 
for  a  time,  and  reverted  to  her  own  life,  and  that  of  her 
father,  who  was  a  preacher.  Soon,  they  wandered  back 
to  Sidney,  to  his  life  of  Hell — the  work  of  an  evil  power — 
the  torn  soul  upon  its  rack  of  torture — and  finally  the 
anguish — always  the  anguish,  followed  by  the  dead  calm 
of  endless  existence. 

Yet  during  their  acquaintance,  he  never  spoke  of  the 
past.  No  word  of  censure,  or  of  unmanly  criticism, 
passed  his  lips. 


AND  HE  NEVER  KNEW  49 

So  Mildred  Latham  could  feel  in  a  measure  relieved, 
for  she  had  secrets, — and  she  kept  them  all  to  herself,  too. 

Directly,  she  shook  off  the  depression,  and  rose  to  her 
feet. 

"It  is  all  settled,"  she  said  half  aloud,  and,  going  to 
her  trunk,  laid  the  book  in  the  tray,  lifted  the  latter  out, 
and,  reaching  to  the  bottom,  took  up  a  small  steel  box 
and  set  it  on  the  dresser.  She  then  inserted  a  small  key, 
opened  it,  and  took  therefrom  a  heavy,  legal  document. 
Examining  it  for  a  time,  she  put  it  into  her  hand  bag, 
locked  the  box,  returned  it  to  its  place,  replaced  the  tray 
and  locked  the  trunk  again.  This  done,  she  slipped  into 
a  street  suit,  and,  gathering  up  the  handbag  firmly,  left  her 
room,  locked  the  door,  stepped  into  the  street,  and  caught 
a  car  that  took  her  up  town,  where  she  alighted  before  a 
mammoth  office  building.  She  entered  this,  took  an 
elevator  and  got  off  on  the  twentieth  floor,  entering  the 
office  of  a  prominent  law  firm.  This  visit  had  been  pre 
arranged. 

An  hour  later,  she  left  a  large  bank  on  the  ground  floor, 
returned  to  her  room,  took  the  box  from  her  trunk,  and 
replaced,  not  the  legal  document,  but  a  long,  green  slip 
of  paper. 

"All  is  now  settled  on  that  score,"  she  whispered 
drearily,  and  then  busied  herself  mechanically  about  the 
room.  Again  she  fell  into  that  fit  of  meditation.  She 
could  not — try  as  she  might — shake  off  the  despondency. 
And  always,  in  the  background  somewhere,  lurked  Sidney 
Wyeth.  Was  this  because  she  felt  she  would  never  see 
him  again?  She  couldn't,  she  knew,  as  she  recalled  her 
secret. 

Suddenly  she  threw  herself  weakly  across  the  bed,  and 
sobbed  for  hours.  "Sidney,  my  Sidney,"  a  careful 
listener  might  have  heard  her  lips  murmur.  But  she  was 
alone.  Perhaps  that  made  it  so  hard,  for  she  was  alone 
now,  always  alone. 

At  last  she  got  up  and  bathed  her  face,  as  she  had  done 
many  times  before. 

Always,  too,  she  had  a  presentiment  down  in  her  heart, 
that  somewhere  or  somehow,  some  day  fate  would  be 


50  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

kind  and  send  him  again  into  her  life.  Arid  then  would 
she  be  ready? 

0  that  persistent  question! 

Now  Mildred  Latham  was  not  a  weak  woman.  Far 
from  it.  In  spite  of  the  secret,  which  was  ever  her  burden, 
she  was  not  the  kind  to  give  up  without  struggle.  This 
was  perhaps  the  cause,  in  a  degree,  of  the  suffering  she 
endured.  It  was  this  sorrow  which  Sidney  Wyeth  had 
observed,  and  wished  to  dispell.  "If  I  could  only  have 
permitted  him  to  do  so, "  she  said,  so  many,  many  times. 
But  always  The  Barrier. 

"I  will  sell  his  book  henceforth  for  my  living,"  she 
said  to  herself  at  the  end  of  that  day,  as  she  had  often 
said  before.  "And  in  doing  that,  I  shall  ever  live  with 
his  memory — God  bless  him!"  For  Mildred  Latham 
loved  Sidney  Wyeth. 

And  he  never  knew. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

B.  J.  Dickson 

When  Sidney  Wyeth's  work  among  the  domestics  was 
an  assured  success,  he  decided  to  rent  desk  space  in  the 
large  office  building  referred  to,  get  a  typewriter,  do  a 
little  circularizing,  and  concentrate  his  efforts  upon  secur 
ing  agents  elsewhere,  for  the  purpose  of  distributing  his 
work. 

Accordingly,  one  Sunday  morning,^after  being  told 
that  the  custodian  of  the  building  could  be  found  in  his 
office  on  the  fourth  floor,  he  betook  himself  thither. 

But  let  us  pause  for  a  moment,  and  retrace  a  long  span 
of  years,  that  we  may  interest  ourselves  in  the  history  of 
this  same  structure.  For  it  has  a  fascinating  tale  to  tell. 

Before  freedom  came  to  the  black  people  of  the  south, 
pious  worship  had  begun.  Despite  the  fact  that  it  was 
an  offense  to  teach  Negroes  during  that  dark  period,  or 
in  any  way  to  be  responsible  for  allowing  them  to  teach 
themselves,  many,  nevertheless,  did  learn  to  read;  and 
perhaps  because  the  slave-owners  were  inclined  to  be 
God-fearing  people,  they  did  not,  in  a  general  sense, 
openly  object  when  they  found  many  of  their  slaves  wor 
shipping.  So  it  happened  that,  since  men  were  in  the 
majority  of  those  who  learned  to  read,  the  first  channel 
to  which  they  diverted  this  knowledge  was  preaching. 
And  since,  as  above  mentioned,  they  were  not  always 
forbidden,  worshipping  the  Christ  among  Negroes  had 
been  practiced  long  before  freedom  came.  Therefore, 
after  freedom,  preaching  became  the  leading  profession 
among  the  men. 

The  reader  is  perhaps  well  acquainted  with  the  pious 
emotion  of  the  Negro;  our  story  will  not  dwell  at  length 
upon  this;  but  the  fact  that,  to  become  a  preacher  as  a 

51 


52  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

professional  pursuit,  was  the  easiest  and  most  popular 
vocation;  and  from  the  fact,  further,  that  Negroes  had 
become  emotionally  inclined  from  fear  in  one  sense  and 
another,  so  that  it  is  inherent,  preaching  and  building 
churches  swept  that  part  of  the  country  like  wildfire. 

Of  the  different  sects,  the  Baptist  seemed  to  require 
the  least  training  in  order  to  afford  the  most  emotion. 
All  that  was  required,  in  a  measure,  to  become  a  Baptist 
preacher,  was  to  be  a  good  'feeler"  and  the  practiced 
ability  to  make  others  feel. 

History  proves  that  people  of  all  races  (when  still  not 
far  removed  from  savagery)  are  inclined  toward  display. 
This  is  an  inherent  nature  of  Negroes.  Indeed,  Negroes 
of  today,  in  many  instances  those  who  have  graduated 
from  the  best  colleges,  seem  yet  largely  endowed  with  this 
trait,  as  this  story  will  show  later. 

So,  shortly  after  preaching  and  shouting  became  the 
custom,  another  feature  entered  which  permitted  these 
people  more  "feeling,"  and  this  was  lodges,  secret  societies 
and  social  fraternities.  These,  like  everything  else — omit 
ting  possibly  the  extreme  "feeling"  exercised  during 
religious  worship — was  patterned  after  white  custom; 
but,  insofar  as  the  Negro  is  concerned,  a  great  deal  more 
stress  and  effort  and  feeling  was  put  into  the  things 
mentioned.  In  a  sense,  they  were  the  Negroes  all. 

Naturally,  these  many  lodges,  etc.,  must  have  some 
object.  And  that  object  for  years,  was  irrevocably,  to 
care  for  the  sick  and  bury  the  dead. 

Our  story  will  be  concerned  with  the  United  Order  of 
the  AAASSSSBBBBGG,  which,  for  the  purpose  of  this 
story,  will  answer  as  well  as  the  real  name,  and  will  be 
much  easier  to  refer  to. 

The  AAASSSSBBBBGG,  is  one  of  the  oldest  lodges  in 
Dixie,  having  been  in  operation  among  the  black  people 
for  generations.  And  its  great  object  was,  until  a  few 
years  ago,  to  "ce'h  fo'  the  sick  'n'  bu'y  the  dead." 

In  the  course  of  events,  there  had  been  elected  to  a 
very  conspicuous  position  in  this  same  lodge,  a  man  with 
a  square  jaw.  He  was  of  medium  height  and  build,  but 
aggressive,  very  much  so,  in  fact,  a  born  fighter.  Hap- 


B.  J.  DICKSON  53 

pily,  the  latter  trait  was  peculiarly  necessary  to  the  one 
who  held  the  office  of  grand  secretaryship  in  this  lodge — 
and  to  this  office  Dickson  fell  heir. 

Now  Dickson  was  no  ordinary  Negro.  He  was  am 
bitious,  not  the  kind  that  is  likely  to  be  satisfied  with 
the  past  duties  of  the  order.  Because,  and  it  might  be 
well  to  mention  so  strange  a  coincidence:  This  lodge  had 
not  been  able  to  spend  all  the  money  that  had  come  into 
the  treasury  for  burial  purposes.  So  the  reserve  totalled 
$40,000  cash.  It  was  confidentially  whispered  that  the 
officers,  a  united  click,  preceding  Dickson,  had  calmly 
planned,  when  this  amount  reached  $50,000,  to  grab  it 
all,  and  start  a  colony — for  themselves,  of  course,  in 
Africa.  But,  alas!  enters  Dickson,  the  determined,  the 
ambitious.  And  if  anything  can  serve  to  disturb  an 
order  like  this,  it  is  ambition.  In  all  the  years  of  its 
existence,  the  slogan  had  been  to  crucify  ambition  relig 
iously,  but  Dickson  crucified  them.  At  this  time,  at 
least,  they  were  relegated  to  the  scrub  timber,  where  they 
lay  dreaming  of  a  time  never  to  return,  for  "the  old  order 
changeth." 

In  addition  to  the  office  of  grand  secretary,  Dickson 
was  an  editor,  and  before  the  moss-backs  had  realized  it, 
some  years  before,  he  was  editing  the  official  mouthpiece, 
The  Independent.  They  thought  little  of  this,  in  fact,  they 
didn't  care,  because,  in  the  first  place,  no  one  else  cared 
for  that  job;  it  required  too  much  thought  to  edit  a 
paper  that  the  members  would  be  likely  to  read.  The 
Independent  had  come  out  at  spasmodic  intervals,  report 
ing,  in  detail,  the  death  of  Miss  Sallie  Doe,  "a  member 
in  good  standing,  who  had  met  her  Jesus  on  the  altar  of 
evermore;"  or,  that  Jim  Johnson,  another  member,  "had 
been  incarcerated  in  the  county  jail,  along  with  many 
others,  for  disturbing  the  peace;"  or,  that  at  the  revival 
at  the  Antioch  Baptist  church,  of  which  Brother  Jasper 
was  the  pastor,  "a  soul  stirring  revival  is  going  on  with 
scores  'gittin'  right  with  Jesus',"  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  But  its 
greatest  ambition,  apparently,  had  been  to  come  before 
the  people,  guaranteed  not  to  be  read. 

So  fancy,  when,  after  getting  control,  Dickson  "did  it 


54  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

all  over."  The  Independent  became  "some"  paper.  It 
fairly  ripped  and  snorted.  It  took  up  the  instances  of 
officers  that  were  sluggish  and  backward  and  slow,  and 
made  great  headlines.  "Whew!"  the  members  cried, 
who  had  never  read  the  paper  before.  While  others 
declared:  "Ah  allus  knowed  dat  nigga  's  crazy!"  But 
everybody  began  reading  the  paper.  They  objected  and 
scrambled  and  stewed  about  what  was  said,  called  him 
the  biggest  liar,  bull-dozer,  and  everything  else,  but  read 
the  paper.  So  the  circulation  doubled  and  trebled  and 
quadrupled,  and  then  doubled  all  over  again,  until  it 
was  reaching  every  "live"  member  of  the  order.  Dickson 
didn't  care  whether  it  reached  the  others  or  not,  and  he 
told  them  so;  moreover,  he  said — in  not  so  many  words, 
but  it  was  read  between  the  lines, — that  they  could  go  to 
Hell.  They  took  the  paper  then. 

There  came  a  time  at  last  when  the  treasury  was 
reeking  with  Sam's  good  gold,  and  Dickson  had  more 
enemies  than  could  be  counted  readily.  But  Dickson 
was  wise.  He  had  looked  deeply  into  the  condition  and 
inborn  weakness  of  these  black  creatures,  and  had  sur 
mised  that  they  only  patronized  each  other  when  they 
mutually  hated.  If  they  loved  one  another,  they  were 
allowed  to  starve  to  death  undisturbed. 

He  saw  that  Negroes  would  only  build  and  occupy  an 
office  when  the  white  man  refused  to  rent  him  anything 
but  the  attic — and  not  even  that  sometimes.  So,  with  a 
flare,  a  blaze  and  a  roar,  out  came  The  Independent,  and 
said  that  the  AAASSSSBBBBGG  lodge  had  decided  to 
erect  an  office  building  of  its  own.  It  was  to  be  six  stories 
in  height,  of  brick,  with  stone  cornices,  and  what  not. 
Moreover,  a  picture  of  it  completed  appeared  on  the 
front  page  of  The  Independent.  That  finished  it!  They 
prepared  to  send  him  to  the  mad-house,  and  forthwith 
gathered  for  that  purpose,  which  was  what  Dickson 
wanted.  They  arrived  in  twos,  threes  and  fours,  and  then 
in  droves.  To  the  tune  and  number  of  thousands  they 
came  and  were  met  (?)  by  a  brass  band!  And  away  went 
the  music:  "Ta-ra — ta — ta-ti-rip-i-ta-ta-ta-tu!"  It  got 
into  the  Negro  blood.  Music,  of  all  things,  always  has 


B.  J.  DICKSON  55 

effect.  Before  they  were  aware  of  it,  they  were  cake- 
walkin'  and  doin'  the  grizzly  bear,  and  it  has  also  been 
whispered  confidentially,  that  two  preachers,  high  and 
mighty  in  the  order,  "balled  the  jack."  The  music 
stopped  for  a  spell.  Through  the  crowd — the  black 
crowd — came  a  cry,  "Arrah!  Arrah!  for  the  Negro,  the 
greatest  race  since  the  coming  of  Christ!"  And  it  was 
answered:  "Arrah!  Arrah!  So  we  is.  Who  said  we 
wasn't!"  "The  white  man!"  came  back  the  reply. 
"He's  a  liah!"  went  back  the  words  heatedly.  "If  so, 
then,"  came  back,  "why  do  we  continue  to  do  our  busi 
ness  in  his  attic?  Why?"  This  was  a  shock.  But  before 
recovery,  sayeth  the  cry:  "$50,000  odd  we  have  in  the 
treasury  to  care  for  the  sick  and  bury  the  dead!  With 
$60,000  more  we  can  have  a  building  all  pur  own,  with 
elevators  and  mirrors  and  a  thousand  things,  with  our 
own  girls  to  tickle  the  type  and  scratch  on  the  books." 
A  wild  dream  flitted  across  the  minds  of  these  black  men, 
the  underdogs,  the  slaves  for  a  thousand  years;  their 
wives,  the  cooks  and  the  scrub  women;  their  daughters, 
the  lust  of  the  beast.  And  then  from  somewhere  came 
another  cry.  It  was  soft  and  low,  but  firm  and  regular. 
It  came  from  a  body  of  women,  black  women.  "With 
our  hands,  from  the  white  people's  pot,  we  will  give  unto 
thee  thousands,  and  back  again  to  the  pots  we  will  go 
and  slave,  until  our  old  bones  can  slave  no  more,  and 
pay,  and  pay  until  a  mighty  building,  the  picture  of 
which  we  have  seen,  shall  stand  as  a  monument  to  the 
effort  of  BLACK  PEOPLE!" 

And  now  there  was  a  scramble  to  the  front!  It  was  a 
scramble  as  had  never  been  seen  in  Attalia  before! 
$60,000  was  fairly  thrown  over  the  heads  of  one  another 
to  B.  J.  DICKSON,  the  grand  secretary. 

Six  months  and  a  year  had  elapsed.  And  the  monu 
ment  stood  serenely  in  the  sunlight,  as  Sidney  Wyeth 
came  down  the  street  that  Sunday  morn.  To  the  side  of 
this  monument  stood  another,  imposing  and  grand,  not 
yet  finished,  but  soon  to  be,  and  it  had  all  come  through 
the  indirect  efforts  of  B.  J.  Dickson.  They  were  not 


56  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

satisfied  with  the  one,  when  they  learned  they  could  do 
things,  but  needed  another — so  they  subscribed  the 
necessary  funds  without  effort,  and  built  the  other. 

Before  entering,  Sidney  walked  across  the  street  and 
viewed  the  structure  from  the  other  side. 

Thus  he  saw  his  people,  as  others  see  them. 

For  his  life  had  been  spent,  for  the  most  part,  in 
white  civilization. 

As  he  surveyed  it  carefully,  he  was  relieved  to  find 
that,  to  a  stranger,  there  was  nothing  to  indicate  that 
colored  people  occupied  the  building. 

An  intelligent  looking  man  came  out  of  it,  and,  crossing 
the  street,  bowed  casually  to  Wyeth.  The  latter,  return 
ing  it,  inquired  regarding  the  building  and  Dickson,  and 
he  was  told  the  following: 

"Yes,  while  there  are  many  who  do  not  give  Dickson 
the  credit,  he  is,  nevertheless,  the  man  who  has  made  all 
that  possible." 

"Everything  is  well  kept  apparently,"  said  Wyeth. 
"That  is  unusual  for  our  people." 

"That's  Dickson,"  said  the  other.  And  then  aside  he 
inquired: 

"Have  you  ever  been  through  it?" 

"I  am  just  going,"  said  Sidney. 

"You  should  have  done  so  during  the  week.  Any 
time  before  one  o'clock  Saturday." 

"Why  one  o'clock  Saturday?" 

"Because  everything  ceases  at  that  time." 

"Indeed,"  Wyeth  commented  in  wide  surprise. 
"System?" 

"That's  it.    That's  Dickson." 

"Indeed!    Does  he  have  charge  of  everything?" 

"  Indirectly,  yes.  That  is,  he  does  not  own  everything, 
of  course  not;  but  it's  like  this:  Do  you  observe  how 
everything  is  in  order?"  Wyeth  did,  and  waited. 

"Well,"  resumed  the  stranger:  "You  can  bet  your 
boots  that  it  would  not  be  that  way,  if  it  were  left  to 
those  in  the  buildings  altogether.  No;  they  would — some 
of  them — get  into  a  fight,  knock  out  a  window  or  two, 
and  bring  a  pillow  from  home,  to  stick  in  the  hole.  The 


B.  J.  DICKSON  57 

first  time  it  rained  and  blew  in  at  the  window,  the  plaster 
would  fall.  Then,  others,  posing  more  than  anything 
else,  would  have  a  crap  game  going  on  and  sell  whiskey 
on  the  side.  As  for  the  letters  in  gold  which  you  observe 
on  the  windows,  they  are  Dickson's  ideas.  Negroes 
would  use  chalk  naturally.  But  Dickson  won't  stand 
for  anything  like  that.  When  anything  is  amiss,  he  goes 
at  them,  as  for  instance,  those  stores  in  the  front.  Many 
of  the  proprietors,  when  they  empty  a  box,  instead  of 
putting  it  to  the  rear,  would  stick  it  in  the  front, 'right  up 
where  every  passerby  could  see  it.  To  augment  it  further, 
they  would  allow  dust  and  dead  flies  to  collect.  Cobwebs 
too  and  perhaps,  pile  a  few  old  rags  up  on  the  top  of  it. 
But  B.  J.  goes  to  them,  as  I  said,  invites  them  across  the 
street,  and  shows  it  to  them.  He  takes  them  up  to  one 
end  of  the  building,  and  walks  them  to  the  other,  and 
allows  them  to  see  it  as  the  casual  observer  would.  If 
he  dosn't  think  or  consider  this  sufficient,  he  takes  them 
up  town,  and  allows  their  gaze  to  compare  it  with  the 
way  things  are  conducted  by  the  first  class  white  people. 
And  then  he  says:  'Now  just  look  at  it!  That's  nigga's. 
Nigga's  proper.  You  conduct  your  place  so  that  every 
stranger,  seeing  the  city  and  the  sights,  when  he  gets 
before  this  building,  realizes  at  one  glance  that  Negroes 
occupy  it.' ' 

Sidney  laughed  a  low,  amused  laugh.  The  other  con 
tinued: 

"That's  why  you  see  things  as  they  are.  Our  people 
are  not  bad  to  handle.  They  are,  in  fact,  the  most 
patriotic  of  all  races,  and  are  surely  anxious  for  the 
success  of  each  other,  only  they  don't  know  it.  They  are 
like  a  herd  without  a  leader.  Dickson's  a  leader  over 
there." 

"Ah!"  thought  Sidney,  "that's  where  it  comes  in. 
The  race  needs  leaders!"  Again  the  other  was  speaking. 

"Of  course,  we  nave  a  great  many  that  would  be 
leaders,  oh,  yes,  indeed!  Over  there  in  that  building  are 
many  who  are  pining  their  lives  away.  They  are  confident 
they  are  leaders,  and  are  exasperated  because  they  have 
no  following.  They  hate  the  people  because  they  are  not 


56  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

satisfied  with  the  one,  when  they  learned  they  could  do 
things,  but  needed  another — so  they  subscribed  the 
necessary  funds  without  effort,  and  built  the  other. 

Before  entering,  Sidney  walked  across  the  street  and 
viewed  the  structure  from  the  other  side. 

Thus  he  saw  his  people,  as  others  see  them. 

For  his  life  had  been  spent,  for  the  most  part,  in 
white  civilization. 

As  he  surveyed  it  carefully,  he  was  relieved  to  find 
that,  to  a  stranger,  there  was  nothing  to  indicate  that 
colored  people  occupied  the  building. 

An  intelligent  looking  man  came  out  of  it,  and,  crossing 
the  street,  bowed  casually  to  Wyeth.  The  latter,  return 
ing  it,  inquired  regarding  the  building  and  Dickson,  and 
he  was  told  the  following: 

"Yes,  while  there  are  many  who  do  not  give  Dickson 
the  credit,  he  is,  nevertheless,  the  man  who  has  made  all 
that  possible." 

"Everything  is  well  kept  apparently,"  said  Wyeth. 
"That  is  unusual  for  our  people." 

"That's  Dickson,"  said  the  other.  And  then  aside  he 
inquired: 

"Have  you  ever  been  through  it?" 

"I  am  just  going,"  said  Sidney. 

"You  should  have  done  so  during  the  week.  Any 
time  before  one  o'clock  Saturday." 

"Why  one  o'clock  Saturday?" 

"Because  everything  ceases  at  that  time." 

"Indeed,"  Wyeth  commented  in  wide  surprise. 
"System?" 

"That's  it.    That's  Dickson." 

"Indeed!    Does  he  have  charge  of  everything?" 

"  Indirectly,  yes.  That  is,  he  does  not  own  everything, 
of  course  not;  but  it's  like  this:  Do  you  observe  how 
everything  is  in  order?"  Wyeth  did,  and  waited. 

"Well,"  resumed  the  stranger:  "You  can  bet  your 
boots  that  it  would  not  be  that  way,  if  it  were  left  to 
those  in  the  buildings  altogether.  No;  they  would — some 
of  them — get  into  a  fight,  knock  out  a  window  or  two, 
and  bring  a  pillow  from  home,  to  stick  in  the  hole.  The 


B.  J.  DICKSON  57 

first  time  it  rained  and  blew  in  at  the  window,  the  plaster 
would  fall.  Then,  others,  posing  more  than  anything 
else,  would  have  a  crap  game  going  on  and  sell  whiskey 
on  the  side.  As  for  the  letters  in  gold  which  you  observe 
on  the  windows,  they  are  Dickson's  ideas.  Negroes 
would  use  chalk  naturally.  But  Dickson  won't  stand 
for  anything  like  that.  When  anything  is  amiss,  he  goes 
at  them,  as  for  instance,  those  stores  in  the  front.  Many 
of  the  proprietors,  when  they  empty  a  box,  instead  of 
putting  it  to  the  rear,  would  stick  it  in  the  front,  right  up 
where  every  passerby  could  see  it.  To  augment  it  further, 
they  would  allow  dust  and  dead  flies  to  collect.  Cobwebs 
too  and  perhaps,  pile  a  few  old  rags  up  on  the  top  of  it. 
But  B.  J.  goes  to  them,  as  I  said,  invites  them  across  the 
street,  and  shows  it  to  them.  He  takes  them  up  to  one 
end  of  the  building,  and  walks  them  to  the  other,  and 
allows  them  to  see  it  as  the  casual  observer  would.  If 
he  dosn't  think  or  consider  this  sufficient,  he  takes  them 
up  town,  and  allows  their  gaze  to  compare  it  with  the 
way  things  are  conducted  by  the  first  class  white  people. 
And  then  he  says:  'Now  just  look  at  it!  That's  nigga's. 
Nigga's  proper.  You  conduct  your  place  so  that  every 
stranger,  seeing  the  city  and  the  sights,  when  he  gets 
before  this  building,  realizes  at  one  glance  that  Negroes 
occupy  it.' ' 

Sidney  laughed  a  low,  amused  laugh.  The  other  con 
tinued: 

"That's  why  you  see  things  as  they  are.  Our  people 
are  not  bad  to  handle.  They  are,  in  fact,  the  most 
patriotic  of  all  races,  and  are  surely  anxious  for  the 
success  of  each  other,  only  they  don't  know  it.  They  are 
like  a  herd  without  a  leader.  Dickson's  a  leader  over 
there." 

"Ah!"  thought  Sidney,  "that's  where  it  comes  in. 
The  race  needs  leaders!"  Again  the  other  was  speaking. 

"Of  course,  we  have  a  great  many  that  would  be 
leaders,  oh,  yes,  indeed!  Over  there  in  that  building  are 
many  who  are  pining  their  lives  away.  They  are  confident 
they  are  leaders,  and  are  exasperated  because  they  have 
no  following.  They  hate  the  people  because  they  are  not 


58  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

awake  to  the  fact.  They  declare,  that  they  have  even 
been  to  school  and  graduated  from  college  and  know  every 
thing,  which  alone  should  put  them  at  the  head.  For 
some  peculiar  reason,  they  cannot  realize  that  leaders 
are  born,  not  made. 

"Now  you  leave  the  building  and  wander  about  over 
the  city,  and  you  will  find  a  score  or  more  of  these  would- 
be  leaders,  all  with  the  same  delusion  in  regard  to  them 
selves.  They  include,  for  the  most  part,  teachers, 
preachers  and  doctors.  They  are  so  wrapped  up  in  this 
idea,  that  they  are  utterly  incapable  of  appreciating  what 
the  race  is  actually  doing,  and  trying  to  do.  Of  these, 
perhaps  the  worst  are  the  teachers.  This  is  probably 
because  they  are  paid  by  the  county,  and  do  not  have  to 
cater  to  the  masses  for  their  support."  He  paused,  and 
extended  his  hand.  "Glad  to  know  you,  stranger,  and 
good-by." 

Sidney  Wyeth  watched  him  disappear,  and  then 
crossed  the  street  to  the  building,  and  entered. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

"Oh,  You  Sell  Books" 

One  beautiful  day,  the  Palm  Leaf  Limited  carried 
another  passenger  southward,  aboard  the  Jim  Crow  car. 
It  was  Mildred  Latham,  and  her  destination  required  a 
change  at  Chattanooga.  Turning  her  course,  however, 
she  went  west  and  alighted  at  a  town,  happily  located 
upon  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi.  It  was  a  large  metro 
polis,  a  fac-simile  of  a  sister  city,  Attalia. 

Miss  Latham  left  the  depot  at  once,  and  proceeded  to 
Beal  Street,  which  was  entirely  occupied  by  Negroes. 
She  entered  a  restaurant,  but  soon  came  out,  and  started 
in  search  of  a  room.  However,  the  land-ladies  all  told 
her  they  preferred  men,  so  she  decided  to  look  elsewhere. 

A  car  put  her  off  at  a  corner  far  removed  from  Beal 
Street.  She  passed  down  a  clean,  quiet  street,  lined  on 
either  side  by  comfortable  homes  occupied  by  colored 
people.  She  paused  before  a  small  but  handsome  stone 
church.  It  was  the  First  Presbyterian,  so  the  corner 
stone  read.  To  the  side,  and  back  from  the  sidewalk, 
completely  surrounded  by  vines,  was  the  parsonage,  at 
least  she  took  it  for  such.  And  so  it  proved  to  be.  She 
hesitated  a  moment,  then,  with  an  air  of  finality,  she 
opened  the  gate,  entered  the  yard,  and  mounted  the  steps. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  kindly  lady,  whom  she 
judged  to  be  the  pastor's  wife. 

"Pardon  me,  please/'  began  Miss  Latham  demurely, 
"but  I  am  a  stranger,  recently  arrived  in  the  city,  and 
have  been  unable  to  secure  lodging.  I  noted  the  church 
next  door,  and  surmised  that,  if  this  is  the  parsonage, 
and  if  the  pastor  is  in,  he  might  assist  me."  She  hesitated, 
and  for  a  time  seemed  at  a  loss  how  to  proceed.  In  the 
meantime,  the  other  surveyed  her  critically.  Strange 

59 


60  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

women  were  always  regarded  with  suspicion.  Finally 
she  replied  kindly,  swinging  the  door  wide: 

"Come  in,  my  dear  child.  You  look  tired  and  surely 
need  rest.  You  must  have  come  a  long  way.  The  pastor 
of  the  church  you  refer  to  is  not  in  for  the  present,  and, 
I  regret  to  say,  is  out  of  the  city,  and  is  not  expected 
back  for  several  days.  I  am  his  sister,  however,  and  will 
help  you  all  I  can."  She  paused  as  she  placed  a  rocker 
at  the  disposal  of  the  stranger,  and  relieved  her  of  coat 
and  hat. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  said  Mildred  gratefully.  "I 
hardly  know  how  to  thank  you." 

"Please  do  not  speak  of  it,  my  dear.  As  I  am  alone, 
you  may  stay  with  me  until  you  have  found  the  kind  of 
place  you  desire."  She  was  silent  and  thoughtful  for  a 
moment,  and  then  asked  softly,  "where  are  you  from?" 

"Cincinnati." 

"I  do  declare!"  exclaimed  the  other  in  mild  surprise. 
"I  have  relatives  there;  but  I  have  never  seen  the  city 
myself." 

The  stranger  appeared  relieved. 

"And  do  you  expect  to  be  in  the  city  long?" 

"  I  cannot  say.  I  am  here  to  sell  a  book,  The  Tempest, 
a  western  story,  by  a  Negro  author.  And,  of  course,  it 
depends  upon  that,  as  to  how  long  I  shall  stay." 

"Oh,  you  sell  books."  Mildred  did  not  correct  her. 
"I  used  to  sell  books,  and,  indeed  I  liked  it.  I  am  fond 
of  reading.  I  am  anxious  to  see  the  book  you  speak  of 
when  it  is  convenient,  since  I  have  observed  advertise 
ments  of  it." 

"It  is  a  nice  book,"  Mildred  commented.  "And  as 
soon  as  I  can  have  access  to  my  trunk  at  the  depot,  I 
shall  be  delighted  to  let  you  see  and  read  it." 

"I  shall  indeed  be  pleased,  I  assure  you,"  the  other 
smiled  back  sweetly.  "I  am  always  so  interested  when 
it  comes  to  books,  that  I  wish,  when  you  have  had  some 
thing  to  eat,  you  would  tell  me  the  story  of  The  Tempest." 

"It  will  be  a  pleasure;  but  you  need  not  fix  me  lunch, 
for  I  just  ate  a  short  time  ago,  as  I  came  from  the  station. 
So,  if  you  now  wish,  I  will  tell,  in  as  few  words  as  possible, 
and  as  best  I  can,  the  story  of  this  book. 


"OH,  YOU  SELL  BOOKS"  61 

"The  story  opens  up  on  the  banks  of  the  river,  near 
this  city.  ...  It  concerns  a  young  man,  restless  and  dis 
contented,  who  regarded  the  world  as  a  great  opportunity. 
So  he  set  forth  to  seek  his  fortune.  .  .  .  Thus  it  began,  but 
shortly,  it  led  through  a  maze  of  adventures,  to  a  land  in 
the  west.  It  is,  perhaps,  the  land  of  the  future;  a  land 
in  which  opportunity  awaits  for  courageous  youths, 
strong  men,  and  good  women.  .  .  .  This  land  is  called 
The  Rosebud  Indian  Reservation.  It  lays  in  southern 
South  Dakota,  and  slopes  back  from  the  banks  of  the 
'Big  Muddy',  stretching  for  many  miles  into  the  interior 
beyond.  It  is  a  prairie  country.  No  trees,  stumps, 
rocks  or  stones  mar  the  progress  of  civilization.  So  the 
white  men  and  only  a  few  blacks  unloaded  at  a  town  on 
or  near  the  frontier.  I  think  it  is  called  Bonesteel.  And 
then  the  mighty  herd  of  human  beings  flocked  and  settled 
over  all  that  broad  expanse,  claiming  it  by  the  right  of 
conquest. 

"Among  these  many,  conspicuous  at  the  front,  was  the 
hero  of  this  narrative.  He  came  into  a  share,  a  creditable 
share,  and,  although  far  removed  irom  the  haunts  of  his 
own,  and  surrounded  on  ail  sides  by  a  white  race,  he  was 
duly  inoculated  with  that  spirit  which  makes  men  suc 
cessful. 

"Time  went  on,  and  in  a  few  years  there  was  no  more 
reservation,  but  it  became  The  Rosebud  Country,  the  land 
of  the  optimist. 

"Then,  of  course,  came  to  him  that  longing,  that 
dream,  the  greatest  of  all  desires,  the  love  of  a  woman. 
But  of  his  own  race  there  were  none,  and  he  did  not  feel 
it  right  to  wed  a  white  wife.  But  at  last,  he  found  one 
of  his  own  blood.  She  was  kind,  good  and  refined,  but 
in  conviction  she  was  weak,  without  strength  of  her  own. 
She  loved  him — as  such  women  love,  but  to  her  father, 
a  preacher,  she  was  obedient, — subservient.  They  lived 
for  some  months  in  happiness,  until  that  other — her 
father — came  to  visit  them.  These  two,  her  father  and 
her  husband,  differed,  both  in  thought  and  action,  and, 
naturally  out  of  sympathy.  In  short,  they  disagreed 
upon  all  points,  including  the  daughter,  the  wife,  and  at 


62  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

last  the  mother,  for  in  time  such  she  became.  And  that, 
strange  to  say,  instead  of  being  the  birth  of  a  new  free 
dom,  was  the  end  of  all  things. 

"So  o'er  this  land  of  the  free  there  came  a  change,  a 
sad  change,  that  led  to  the  end,  the  end  of  The  Tempest." 
She  paused,  and  allowed  her  eyes  to  remain  upon  the  rug 
before  her,  while  the  other  listened  for  more.  Presently 
she  said: 

"And  was  it  her  father — who  stooped  to  this?" 

The  other  nodded  and  remained  silent,  with  down 
cast  eyes. 

Mildred  Latham  could  not  have  said  more  had  she 
wished — just  then.  A  peculiar  feeling  came  over  her, 
and  her  mind  went  back  to  a  night  not  long  before. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

The  Office  of  the  Grand  Secretary 

When  Sidney  Wyeth  walked  into  the  office  of  B.  J. 
Dickson  that  Sunday  morning,  he  found  him  alone, 
engaged  in  reading.  When  a  step  sounded  at  the  door, 
he  laid  the  paper  aside  and  glanced  searchingly  at  the 
intruder.  Wyeth  saw  before  him,  the  man  of  determina 
tion:  the  square  jaw,  the  determined  set  of  the  neck; 
otherwise  he  would  not  attract  any  particular  attention 
in  a  crowd.  But  this  was  B.  J.  Dickson,  of  whom  he  had 
heard  much  since  coming  to  Attalia,  and  even  before. 

"Mr.  Dickson?"  he  inquired,  respectfully.  The  other 
nodded,  and  pointed  to  a  chair. 

"You  have  charge  of  the  renting  here,  so  I  understand?" 

"Yes." 

"I'd  like  to  get  desk  space  for  the  present,  and  later 
on  perhaps  I  might  require  an  office." 

"I  see,"  mused  the  other,  surveying  him  meditatively. 
"Well,  we  have  nothing  left  in  this  building;  but  I  think 
there  are  two  or  three  rooms  not  yet  rented  in  the  build 
ing  you  have  observed  in  course  of  construction.  What 
kind  of  business  are  you  engaged  in?" 

"Books,"  replied  Sidney,  simply. 

"M-m.  Well,  I  can't  give  you  any  information  as  to 
desk  space.  You  can,  however,  see  Morton  tomorrow. 
His  office  is  on  the  second  floor,  the  board  of  trade.  He 
can  enlighten  you  on  that  score." 

"What  do  you  receive  for  the  rooms?" 

"$12.50  a  month." 

"That  is  quite  reasonable,"  said  Wyeth.  The  other 
looked  up  with  a  pleased  expression. 

"You're  one  of  the  few  who  have  made  such  a  remark," 
he  commented. 

63 


64  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"Indeed!  That  would  be  considered  cheap  in  my 
section  of  the  country,"  said  Wyeth. 

"Where  is  that?" 

Wyeth  told  him. 

"Oh  well,  you  come  from  a  place  where  the  people  are 
accustomed  to  something.  These  down  here  have  been 
used  to  nothing  but  an  attic  or  an  old  frame  shack,  a  fire 
place  with  wind  blowing  in  at  the  cracks,  and,  of  course, 
cannot  appreciate  steam  heat,  electric  lights,  first  class 
janitor  service,  and  other  modern  conveniences  that  go 
with  such  a  building." 

At  this  point,  several  men  entered  the  room,  most  of 
whom  were  distinguished  looking,  compared  with  the 
average  Negro.  Wyeth  was  introduced  to  them,  and 
learned  that  two  were  physicians,  one  a  dentist,  another 
a  lawyer,  and  still  another  was  a  letter  carrier.  The 
stranger  was  soon  the  object  of  their  many  questions. 
They  were  answered  deliberately,  for  Sidney  Wyeth  was 
well  informed. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  colored  people  in  the  south, 
now  that  you  see  them  yourself?"  he  was  asked.  He 
noted  the  pride  and  air  of  dignity  along  with  the  question. 

"I  am  considerably  impressed  with  what  I  have  seen, 
I  am  sure,"  Wyeth  began  cautiously.  "It  is  unneces 
sary  to  say  that  this  is  probably  the  most  commodious 
structure  owned  and  occupied  by  our  people,  in  any 
city.  And,  I  have  noted  with  a  great  deal  of  pride  that 
you  have  in  the  building,  also,  some  half  a  dozen  large 
insurance  companies,  owned  and  conducted  successfully 
by  members  of  this  race.  All  of  this  and  other  creditable 
things,  too  numerous  to  mention,  count  for  much  in  the 
solution  of  the  race  problem.  Much  more  could  be  said 
in  praise,  but  I  do  not  consider  it  necessary.  And  still, 
with  so  much  to  their  credit,  there  is  much  also  to  their 
discredit — very  much.  I  refer  to  this,  since  it  is  a  thing 
that  can  be  remedied,  and  positively  should  be.  To 
begin  with,  the  people  as  a  whole,  do  not  read  nearly  as 
much  as  in  the  north,  and  are  poorly  informed  in  matters 
of  grave  concern  and  of  general  interest."  He  paused, 
and  saw  that  they  were  puzzled.  They  were,  all  of  them, 


OFFICE  OF  THE  GRAND  SECRETARY      65 

taken  aback.  They  looked  at  each  other,  and  then  began 
to  gather  color  and  heat  as  well. 

Sidney  Wyeth  had  stirred,  by  his  last  words,  his  critic 
ism,  the  hornet's  nest. 

"And  what,  may  I  ask,"  inquired  one  of  the  physicians 
icily,  "has  given  you  that  impression?" 

"Well,  many  things,"  Sidney  resumed  calmly.  "For 
instance:  I  am  in  the  habit  of  buying  The  Climax,  which 
is,  as  you  know,  published  in  New  York,  and  edited  by  a 
man  who  used  to  be  professor  of  sociology  in  one  of  your 
colleges.  Now,  in  all  the  places  I  have  been"  (he  didn't 
refer  to  the  north,  realizing  that  it  would  cause  more 
argument  not  bearing  on  the  discussion),  "I  have  found 
this  magazine  much  in  circulation  among  our  people; 
but  here,  at  only  one  place  have  I  found  it.  You  ap 
preciate  that  the  Negro  population  of  this  town  is  to 
exceed,  without  doubt,  sixty  thousand.  It  receives  but 
fifty  copies  a  month,  and  does  not  sell  all  of  them — of 
course  there  are  annual  subscribers;  but,  so  there  are 
everywhere  else  as  well." 

"Now — "  all  began  with  upraised  hand,  but  Sidney 
stopped  them  with: 

"I've  made  this  remark,  so  hear  me  out,  that  I  may 
show  that  I  am  justified  in  making  it." 

They  were  quiet,  but  impatient. 

"You  have  several  large  drug  stores,  doing  a  creditable 
business  in  the  city.  Omitting  a  few  operated  by  white 
men  in  Negro  neighborhoods,  you  will  hardly  find  one 
that  does  not  carry  a  goodly  stock  of  magazines  for  his 
trade.  Not  a  colored  drug  store  carries  one.  Tompkins, 
other  than  The  Climax,  does  not  sell  any.  Now,  gentle 
men,  with  such  a  population  as  you  have,"  (he  was  very 
serious  now),  "is  it  consistent  to  believe  that  these  black 
people  read  in  proportion  to  what  they  should,  when 
there  is  so  little  current  demand  for  literature?" 

The  outburst  that  followed  this  was  too  intense  to 
describe.  The  composure  that  was  in  keeping  with  their 
appearance  and  training  was,  for  the  time,  lost.  Every 
body  had  something  to  say  to  the  contrary,  and,  at  the 
same  time. 


66  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"I  have  five  hundred  dollars  worth  of  books  in  my 
house,"  cried  Dickson. 

"I  take  The  Climax,  and  have  since  it  began  publica 
tion/'  cried  still  another. 

"Derwin,  its  editor,  is  a  traitor  to  his  race,  and  I  can 
prove  it,"  persisted  another. 

"Theah  ain'  nothin'  in  it,  nohow,"  yelled  another 
whose  English  was  not  the  best. 

"  It's  the  only  magazine  edited  by,  and  in  the  interest 
of  this  race,"  retorted  Wyeth;  "and  has  a  circulation 
more  than  double  that  of  any  other  publication  by 
Negroes  since  freedom. " 

"You  northern  Negroes  think  a  whole  lot  of  Derwin, 
and  are  imbued  with  his  point  of  view,"  cried  Dickson; 
"but  we  had  him  down  here  before  he  went  north,  and 
we  know  him  for  what  he  is,"  and  he  looked  about  him 
meaningly. 

The  others  gave  sanction. 

"He's  the  author  of  the  only  book  in  sociology,  that 
stands  out  as  a  mark  of  Negro  literature.  The  book  is 
a  classic,  and  is  one  of  possibly  two  or  three  from  the  pen 
of  a  Negro  since  Dumas." 

It  is  difficult  to  foretell  where  the  argument  may  have 
ended,  but  Sidney  slipped  out.  As  the  door  closed  behind 
him,  a  mighty  roar  of  indignation  came  over  the  transom. 
"He's  a  liar."  "He's  crazy!"  "Like  all  from  that 
section!" 

When  these  men  met  Wyeth  afterward,  and  for  some 
time,  they  did  not  recognize  him.  He  was  not  surprised. 
They  are,  and  the  best  of  them,  in  a  measure,  still  in 
capable  of  accepting  criticism  as  it  is  meant.  Our  story 
will  go  to  prove  this  more  conclusively  later  on;  but  for 
the  present,  Sidney  Wyeth  had  made  friends.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

Henry  Hugh  Hodder 

Weeks  had  passed,  and  a  touch  of  spring  time  was  in 
the  Dixie  air.  Sidney  Wyeth's  canvass  was  now  assisted 
by  another,  while  from  over  the  country  he  had  secured, 
here  and  there,  an  agent  to  sell  the  book.  He  found  desk 
space  in  an  office  on  the  second  floor,  hired  a  steno 
grapher,  and  filled  the  country  with  circular  letters. 
Perhaps  fifty  or  more  replies  were  received,  a  few  with  a 
money  order  and  requests  for  further  information. 

Although  most  of  the  letters  were  sent  to  preachers 
and  teachers  throughout  the  south,  two-thirds  of  the 
replies  came  from  the  north.  From  Boston,  New  York, 
Chicago,  and  centers  where  literature  is  obtainable  from 
the  libraries  which  are  open  to  Negroes,  more  letters  by 
far  came,  than  from  the  south  where  such  is  not  always 
available.  And  out  of  these,  a  few  agents  were  secured. 
But  it  seemed  almost  an  impossibility  to  interest  those  at 
the  south  in  a  subject  of  literature. 

One  day,  there  came  a  letter  from  a  small  town  in 
Florida  that  amused  Wyeth.  It  was  from  the  secretary 
of  the  board  of  trade.  In  reply  to  the  circular  inquiry, 
requesting  the  names  of  the  Negro  preachers  in  that  city, 
it  ran  thus: 

MY  DEAR  SIR:  Replying  to  your  favor  of  recent  date  relative  to 
the  names  of  Negro  preachers  of  this  city.  In  regard  to  this,  I  am 
compelled  to  say,  that  I  cannot  fully  enlighten  you,  for  this  reason: 
Everything  with  trousers  appears  to  be  a  preacher,  or,  any  one 
who  can  spell  "ligon." 

My  gardener  is  a  preacher,  although  he  finds  my  work  more 
renumerative,  apparently;  but  you  could,  however,  write  to  him, 
and  he  would,  I  feel  sure,  give  you  the  desired  information. 

When  Sidney  appraised  Tompkins  of  his  failure  to  get 
the  cooperation  of  southern  preachers,  in  his  exploit,  he 

67 


68  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

was  advised  that  the  preachers  were  working  that  "side 
of  the  street." 

We  cannot  appreciatively  continue  this  story,  without 
including  a  character  that  is  very  conspicuous  in  Negro 
enterprise.  That  is  the  undertaker.  He  is  always  in 
evidence.  Mortality  among  Negroes  exceeds,  by  far, 
that  among  whites.  This  is  due  to  conditions  that  we 
will  not  dwell  upon,  since  they  will  develop  during  the 
course  of  the  story;  but  in  Attalia,  there  was  one  under 
taker  who  was  particularly  successful.  He  had  the  repu 
tation  of  burying  more  Negroes  than  any  man  in  the 
world.  He  had  a  son,  a  ne'er-do-well,  to  say  the  least, 
and  they  called  him  "Spoon." 

Sidney,  who  at  this  time  shared  a  room  with  Thurman, 
became  acquainted  with  "Spoon"  one  Sunday  night.  It 
was  at  a  "tiger,"  of  which,  as  we  now  know,  there  were 
plenty. 

Spoon  had  a  reputation  in  local  colored  circles,  as  well 
as  his  father;  but  Spoon's  reputation  was  not  enviable. 
He  was  booziogically  inclined,  and  reputed  by  those  who 
knew  him,  to  be  able  to  consume  more  liquor  than  any 
other  ordinary  society  man.  Moreover,  Spoon  was 
"some"  sport,  too;  could  play  the  piano,  in  ragtime 
tune,  and  could  also  "ball  the  jack."  He  would  lean 
back  upon  the  stool,  play  the  latest  rag,  as  no  other  could, 
and  at  the  end,  cry:  "Give  me  some  more  of  that  'Spar 
row  Gin!'  " 

Wyeth  and  Spoon  became  close  friends  following  their 
first  meeting,  and  Sunday  nights,  they  would  roam  until 
one  or  two  in  the  morning.  Spoon  knew  where  every 
"tiger"  in  town  was;  and,  moreover,  he  proved  it. 

Thurman,  although  two  and  fifty,  was  no  "poke;" 
but  was  a  sport  too.  His  began  early  Sunday  morning. 
One  Sunday  morn,  as  they  lay  abed,  after  the  light  of 
the  world  had  come  back  and  claimed  its  own,  Thurman 
called  to  Sidney  where  the  other  lay  reposing  in  the 
pages  of  a  "best  seller."  "Say,  kid!  how  'bout  a  little 
toddy  this  mawnm'?" 

"I'm  there/'  came  the  reply. 


HENRY  HUGH  HODDER  69 

"Good!"  exclaimed  Thurman.  "Guess,  tho'  Til  haf 
to  go  after  it,  's  see  you  lost  in  a  book  all  time.  Gee! 
Looks  lak  you'd  lose  your  mind  a-readin'  so  much." 
No  comment.  "Guess  that's  why  you  got  all  these 
nigga's  a-argun'  'roun'  heah  though;  cause  you  read  and 
they  don't.  M-m;  yeh,  yeh;  that  makes  a  diff'nce. 
M-m." 

"Wull,  reckon'  ah'll  haf  t'  git  in  muh  breeches  and 
crawl  ou'  and  git  dat  stuff  t'  make  it  wid.  M-m.  Old 
Mis'  'roun'  the  conah  '11  be  glad  t'  git  dis  twenty  cents 
dis  mawnin'.  M-m.  Wull,  kid,  be  back  t'rectly." 

He  was,  sooner  than  expected.  He  didn't  get  outside. 
He  peeped  out.  What  met  his  gaze  would  send  any 
southern  rheumatic  Negro  back. 

It  was  snow. 

"Jesus  Chr-i-s-t!"  he  exclaimed,  returning  hastily  from 
the  hallway.  "Hell  has  sho  turned  on  dis'  mawnin  out 
dare.  K-whew!  'f  the's  anything  in  this  world  I  hates, 
it's  snow." 

Sidney  stopped  reading  long  enough  for  a  good  laugh, 
as  Thurman  skinned  off  his  trousers  and  clambered  back 
into  bed. 

"Aw,  shucks,  Thur,  this  is  a  morning  for  toddies." 

"A  mawnin'  fo'  Hell,  yes,  hu!  hu!  Wow!" 

After  a  spell,  he  peeped  from  beneath  the  coverlets. 
"Say!  since  ah  come  t'  think  uv't,  we  c'n  have  them 
toddies  wid-out  get'n  froze  out  in  doin'  it." 

"How's  that?"   asked  the  other. 

"I'll  get  dat  liquah  from  John." 

"And  who  is  John?" 

"John?  Wull,  did'n'  you  git  'quainted  wi'im  when  I 
brung  you  heah?  John's  the  man  we  room  with.  He 
sells  liquah." 

"Say  Spoon,"  said  Sidney  one  day,  "I'm  going  to  cut 
the  tiger  kitin'  out." 

"Aw,  gwan,  kid,  what  you  talkin'  'bout?" 
"I'm  going  to  church  in  the  mornings,  and  in  the 
evenings,  I  hope  to  find  a  place  that  will  be  more  in 
keeping  with  respectable  people,"  announced  Sidney. 


70  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

P"Come  on,  let's  go  up  here  to  old  lady  Macks,  and 
get  some  of  that  'Sparrow  Gin/  "  Spoon  suggested, 
temptingly. 

"To  prove  that  I  am  not  likely  to  keep  my  resolution." 

"You've  none  to  keep  as  I  can  particular  see.  I  have 
never  seen  you  drink  anything  stronger  than  beer  when 
you've  been  with  me.  You  seem  to  go  along  with  me, 
to  see  me  and  the  others  act  a  fool.  Sometimes  you 
impress  me  as  being  a  strange  person.  ...  I  wonder. 
Now  I  wonder.  ..." 

"Where  is  a  church  that  would  be  likely  to  appeal 
to  you  and  myself?" 

"Up  on  Herald  Street  is  one  that  I  think  will  appeal 
to  you.  You're  serious.  Me— -I'm  quite  unfit  for  any; 
but  I'll  take  you  up  there,  and  sit  through  one  of  Hodder's 
sermons  if  you  care  to  go.  My  people  are  members  of 
that  church,  and  it  is  a  progressive  one." 

"We  will  attend  services  there — Sunday  morning." 

Wyeth  became  a  regular  visitor. 

The  following  Sunday,  the  pastor  appraised  the  con 
gregation  of  the  fact,  that  on  the  following  Sunday,  they 
would  have  with  them  the  Reverend  W.  Jacobs,  the 
energetic  young  man  who  was  doing  such  great  work 
for  the  training  of  wayward  children.  And  this  takes 
our  story  into  a  matter  of  grave  human  interest. 

Coincident  with  better  educational  facilities,  and  the 
more  careful  training  of  the  children,  time  had  brought 
a  change  that  was  slowly  but  surely  being  felt  by  these 
black  people  in  the  south.  It  has  already  been  stated, 
that  the  Baptist  church  required  little  literary  training  in 
order  to  preach;  but,  in  this  church,  it  is  quite  different, 
and  no  man  would  be  tolerated  as  a  minister,  who  had 
not  a  great  amount  of  theological,  as  well  as  literary 
training. 

Henry  Hugh  Hodder  was  a  man,  not  only  prepared  in 
the  lines  of  theology  and  literature,  but  was  fully  supplied 
with  practical  knowledge  as  well.  He  had,  at  the  time 
Sidney  Wyeth  became  acquainted  with  him,  gathered  to 
his  church,  a  majority  of  Attalia's  best  black  people. 
His  popularity  was,  moreover,  on  the  increase,  and  his 


HENRY  HUGH  HODDER  71 

church  was  filled  regularly  with  a  class  of  people  who 
listened,  studied  and  applied  to  their  welfare,  what  he 
said  each  Sunday  in  the  pulpit. 

His  church  stood  on  a  corner  to  the  edge  of  the  black 
belt,  and  near  a  fashionable  white  neighborhood.  And  it 
had,  at  the  time  it  was  constructed,  caused  considerable 
agitation.  When  Sidney  and  Spoon  came  to  the  door, 
prayer  was  being  offered,  and  when  it  was  over,  they 
entered,  taking  seats  near  the  door. 

It  was  a  nicely  ventilated  church,  with  large  colored 
windows,  arranged  to  allow  air  to  pass  in  without  coming 
directly  upon  the  congregation.  At  the  front,  a  small 
rostrum  rose  to  the  level  of  the  rear,  and  contained,  in 
addition  to  the  altar,  only  four  chairs.  Sidney  was  told 
afterwards,  that,  due  to  a  practice  always  followed  in 
other  churches,  particularly  the  Baptist,  of  allowing 
journeymen  preachers  to  put  themselves  before  the  con 
gregation  uninvited,  Hodder  had  removed  the  chairs  in 
order  to  discourage  such  practice. 

Apparently  he  had  succeeded,  for,  on  the  Sundays  that 
followed,  Sidney  saw  only  those  who  were  invited,  facing 
the  congregation. 

Directly  over  the  rostrum  hung  a  small  balcony,  which 
contained  the  choir  and  a  pipe  organ.  Following  a  song, 
the  pastor  came  forward.  He  was  a  tall  man,  with  width 
in  proportion,  perhaps  two  hundred  and  twenty  pounds. 
Not  unlike  the  average  Negro  of  today,  he  was  brown- 
skinned.  His  hair,  a  curly  mass  of  blackness,  was  brushed 
back  from  a  high  forehead.  His  voice,  as  he  opened  the 
sermon,  was  deep  and  resonant.  And  for  his  text  that 
day,  he  took  "Does  It  Pay!" 

Not  since  Sidney  Wyeth  had  attended  church  and  heard 
sermons,  had  he  been  so  stirred  by  a  discourse!  Back 
into  the  ancient  times;  to  the  history  of  Judea  and  Caesar, 
he  took  the  listener,  and  then  subtly  applied  it  to  the  Me 
of  today.  Never  had  he  heard  one  whose  eloquence 
could  so  blend  with  everyday  issues,  and  cause  them  to 
react  as  moral  uplift.  For  he  knew  the  black  A  man's 
need.  Pen  cannot  describe  its  effect  upon  Sidney  Wyeth. 
It  seemed,  as  the  words  of  the  pastor  came  to  him,  re- 


72  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

vealing  a  thousand  moral  truths,  which  he  had  felt,  but 
could  not  express,  that  he  had  come  from  afar  for  a  great 
thing,  that  sermon.  It  lifted  him  out  of  the  chaos  of  the 
present,  and  brought  him  to  appreciate  what  life,  and  the 
duty  of  existence  really  meant. 

Having,  in  a  sense,  drifted  away  from  the  pious  training 
he  had  received  as  a  youth,  Sidney  Wyeth  was  suddenly 
jerked  back  to  the  past,  and  enjoyed  the  experience.  On 
account  of  his  progressive  ideas,  he  had  been  accused,  by 
some  of  his  people,  since  his  return  to  live  among  them, 
of  being  an  unbeliever.  He  was  often  told  that  he  was 
not  a  Christian;  they  meant,  of  course,  that  he  was  not 
a  member  of  a  church,  which,  to  most  colored  people,  is 
equivalent  to  disbelief.  Sidney  Wyeth  saw  the  life,  the 
instance  of  Christ  as  a  moral  lesson. 

When  the  sermon  closed,  Wyeth  had  one  desire,  and 
fulfilled  it,  and  that  was  to  shake  Henry  Hugh  Hodder's 
hand;  moreover,  to  tell  him,  in  the  only  way  he  knew 
how,  what  the  sermon  had  been  to  him. 

He  did  so,  and  was  received  very  simply. 

As  he  approached  the  rostrum,  at  the  foot  of  which 
stood  the  pastor,  shaking  hands  with  many  others  who 
had  come  forward  in  the  meantime,  he  was  like  one 
walking  on  air.  He  recalled  the  many  sermons  preached 
to  satisfy  the  emotion  of  an  ignorant  mass,  and  which, 
in  hundreds  of  instances,  went  wide  of  the  mark,  causing 
a  large  portion  of  the  congregation  to  rise  in  their  seats, 
and  give  utterance  to  emotional  discordance,  the  same 
being  often  forgotten  by  the  morrow. 

Hodder  was  not  only  as  he  was  just  described,  but  he 
proved  to  Sidney  Wyeth  to  be  a  practical,  informed,  and 
observing  man  as  well.  When  he  had  received  the  card, 
he  inquired  of  the  country  from  whence  Sidney  came, 
and  related  briefly  the  notices  he  had  followed,  regarding 
its  opening  a  few  years  previous. 

At  that  moment,  a  large  man,  almost  white — that  is,  he 
was  white,  although  a  colored  man — was  introduced  to 
him  as  Mr.  Herman.  He  proved  to  be  the  proprietor  of 
the  large  barber  shop  on  Plum  Street,  which  had  caught 
Sidney's  attention  the  day  he  came.  After  Mr.  Herman's 


HENRY  HUGH  HODDER  73 

introduction,  he  met  many  others  prominent  in  Negro 
circles,  including  the  president  and  cashier  of  the  local 
Negro  bank.  And  thus  it  came  that  Sidney  Wyeth  met 
these,  the  new  Negro,  and  the  leaders  of  a  new  dis 
pensation. 

Two  hours  after  the  services  had  closed,  he  passed  a 
big  church  on  Audubon  Avenue;  a  church  of  the  "old 
style  religion"  and,  which  most  Negroes  still  like.  It  was 
then  after  two  o'clock.  Morning  service  was  still  in 
order — no,  the  sermon  had  closed,  but  collection  hadn't. 
Out  of  curiosity,  he  entered.  The  pastor  had,  during  this 
period,  concentrated  his  arts  on  the  collection  table.  He 
was  just  relating  the  instance  of  people  who  put  their 
dollar  over  one  eye,  so  closely,  that  it  was  liable  to  freeze 
to  the  eye  and  bring  about  utter  blindness.  "So  now," 
he  roared,  brandishing  his  arms  in  a  rally  call,  "  We  jes' 
need  a  few  dollahs  mo'  to  make  the  collection  fo'ty-fo'.  I'll 
put  in  a  quata',  who'll  do  the  rest,"  whereupon  the  choir 
gave  forth  a  mighty  tune,  that  filled  the  church  with  a 
strain  which  made  some  feel  like  dancing. 

The  following  Tuesday,  an  editorial  appeared  in  one  of 
the  leading  dailies,  concerning  the  sermon  and  the  instance 
of  Henry  Hugh  Hodder.  It  dwelt  at  some  length  on 
his  work  for  the  evolution  of  his  people,  and  concluded 
by  praying  that  (among  the  black  population)  great 
would  be  the  day  when  such  men  and  such  sermons  were 
an  established  order. 

Sidney,  now  in  an  office  to  himself,  read  it  to  a  man 
next  door.  Whereupon  the  other  said : 

"Oh,  that  is  nothing  unusual.  They  often  speak  of 
him  and  his  work  in  the  editorial  columns.  Which  might 
account  for  his  having  such  a  fine  church." 

Wyeth  was  silent,  apparently  at  a  loss  what  to  say. 
The  silence  had  reached  a  point  which  was  becoming 
strained,  when  another,  who  happened  to  be  in  the  office, 
relieved  it  by  spitting  out  sneeringly: 

"White  fo'kes  '11  give  any  nigga  plenty  money,  when 
he  says  what  they  want  him  too."  He  was  a  deacon  in 
the  big  church  referred  to.  This  was  not  investigated. 

Wyeth  called  him  a  liar  then  and  there. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

"Sweet  Genevieve" 

"Wilson,  dear,"  said  Constance  Jacobs  to  her  brother, 
the  pastor,  on  his  return  from  Attalia,  Effingham,  and 
other  places  where  he  was  required  to  go  in  the  interest 
of  his  work.  Coming  up  to  him  in  her  usual  manner,  she 
kissed  him  fondly,  for  she  was  not  only  fond  of  this,  her 
only  brother,  but  she  was  proud  of  him.  Well  she  could 
be,  for  Wilson  Jacobs  was  a  hard,  conscientious  worker 
in  the  moral  uplift  of  his  people.  "I  have  a  surprise  in 
store  for  you,"  she  said,  "and  if  you  are  comfortable  I 
will  tell  you." 

"Little  sister,"  he  said,  as  he  kissed  her  fondly  in 
return,  and  gave  her  his  undivided  attention. 

"  I  hardly  know  how  to  tell  you,  but  I  have  with  me, 
someone  who  came  during  your  absence;  the  most  un 
usual  to  be  a  usual  girl  I  have  ever  known."  She  then 
related  the  instance  of  Mildred  Latham's  coming,  and 
the  circumstance,  including  the  book.  "I  have  read  the 
book  that  she  is  selling,  and  with  which  she  seems  to  be 
very  successful,  in  fact,  she  is  so  successful  that  I  am 
almost  persuaded  to  take  up  the  work  myself.  The  story 
is  interesting;  but  it  is  not  that  which  has  caused  me 
much  thought,  it  is  the  girl  herself. 

"She  is  a  beautiful  girl,  intelligent,  kind  and  winning, 
although  she  does  not,  as  I  can  see,  practice  or  exercise 
any  arts  to  be  winning.  She  is  single,  and  does  not 
appear  to  have  any  interest  in  the  opposite  sex,  nor  does 
she  appear  to  care  for  any  society.  In  fact,  besides  being 
nice  and  kind  to  all  whom  she  chances  to  meet,  she  does 
not  have  any  interest  beyond  the  book.  She  is  simply 
foolish  about  it,  just  as  much  so  as  though  the  author 
were  her  lover,  and  depended  upon  her  for  its  success. 

"There  is  something  peculiar,  that  is,  oh,  Wilson,  there 

74 


"SWEET  GENEVIEVE"  75 

is  something,  just  something  that  I  cannot  understand 
about  her,  that's  all."  She  gave  up  trying  to  express 
herself  for  a  time,  and  then  he  spoke: 

"In  love,  no  doubt,  and  has  had  trouble." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  then  shook  her  head.  "It  might  be 
that;  but  if  it  is,  it  is  an  extraordinary  love  affair;  but 
I  am  confident  it  is  deeper  than  that.  I  catch  her  at 
times  looking  into  space  as  though  her  mind  were  far 
away.  And  at  these  times,  I  have  taken  notice  that  she 
is  sad,  very  sad.  My  heart  goes  out  to  her  when  I  see 
her  like  this,  because,  for  some  peculiar  reason,  I  have 
fallen  in  love  with  her.  She  found  a  place  to  stay,  and 
was  going  to  move,  but  I  could  not  think  of  it.  She  is 
the  sweetest  companion  I  ever  had. 

"I  wish  you  would  become  interested  in  her,  dear.  I 
want  you  to.  Perhaps  you  can  get  at  the  bottom  of  the 
mystery  that  surrounds  her.  I  cannot,  and  it  worries 
me,  because  I  want  to  help  her,  and  it  hurts  me  when 
I  feel  that  I  cannot.  She  has  become  very  much  inter 
ested  in  your  work,  and  has  been  helping  me  in  the 
correspondence  relative  to  the  same." 

"When  can  I  meet  this  strange  person  you  speak  of, 
Constance?  I  am  curious,  from  what  you  have  said. 
I  gather  already  that  she  may  be  able  to  help  us  in  some 
way  in  our  work." 

"She  went  down  the  street  for  a  walk,  but  will  return 
shortly,  since  she  never  goes  far."  At  that  moment, 
steps  sounded  on  the  porch,  and  a  moment  later,  Mildred 
entered  quietly,  and  was  on  the  way  to  her  room,  when 
Constance  met  her  with:  "Oh,  Miss  Latham.  Please 
meet  my  brother  who  came  since  you  went  out.  Miss 
Latham,  my  brother,  Wilson  Jacobs." 

"My  sister  has  just  been  speaking  of  you,  Miss 
Latham,"  said  he,  after  the  exchange  had  been  made. 

"Indeed!"  cried  Mildred,  smiling  pleasantly  upon 
Constance.  "Your  sister  does  me  too  much  honor." 

"Not  a  bit.  I  am  glad  to  know  you,  and  shall  be 
pleased  to  become  better  acquainted  as  time  goes  on. 
I  am  told  that  you  are  selling  a  good  book.  I  have 
observed  advertisements  of  the  same  some  time  ago,  and 
will  be  delighted  to  read  it." 


76  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

Mildred  smiled  pleasantly,  hesitated,  and  then  said: 
"Every  one  I  sell  to  report  that  they  love  the  book.  I 
do  myself.  I  think  it  is  such  a  frank  and  unbiased  story, 
and  told  so  simply,  that  anyone  can  understand  it;  yet 
with  a  touching  human  interest  that  is,  in  a  measure, 
vital  to  us  all.  Even  persons  more  highly  gifted  can 
learn  something  from  it,  and  be  entertained  as  well." 

"She  has  sold  over  a  hundred  copies  in  three  weeks, 
which  I  think  is  extraordinary,  don't  you?"  said  Con 
stance  at  this  point,  whereupon  Mildred  looked  slightly 
embarrassed.  She  always  did  when  anyone  spoke  in 
praise  of  her. 

"Extraordinary,  excellent,  I  should  say,"  her  brother 
smiled.  "Where  does  she  find  such  good  customers?" 

"I  work  among  the  women  in  domestic  service," 
Mildred  explained.  Wilson  looked  surprised. 

"  Indeed !  And  do  you  find  many  readers  among  them? 
You  have  not  been  to  many  of  the  teachers?" 

"I  have,  yes;  but  they  do  not  seem  to  take  much 
interest  in  work  by  Negroes,  so  far  as  I  have  been  able 
to  gather.  I  could  not  say  for  sure,  of  course  not;  but 
I  do  find  the  women  in  service,  in  great  numbers,  to  be 
fond  of  reading  and  full  of  race  pride.  Of  course,  there 
are  multitudes  of  ignorant  ones  who  are  not  capable  of 
appreciating  literature  and  its  value  as  moral  uplift,  but, 
as  a  whole,  I  am  highly  successful." 

Wilson  Jacobs  was  greatly  moved  by  his  first  conversa 
tion  with  Mildred,  and  found  himself  thinking  about  her 
more  than  once  in  the  days  that  followed.  His  sister 
became  so  deeply  interested  in  her,  that  after  a  week  had 
passed,  she  had  taken  up  the  work  also. 

"  Do  you  ever  play,  Miss  Latham?  "  inquired  Constance 
a  few  days  afterward,  and  late  one  afternoon,  when  they 
had  returned  from  their  work. 

"A  little,"  Mildred  admitted.  "But  it  has  been  so 
long  since  I  have  touched  a  key,  that  I  am  sure  I  should 
be  very  awkward  if  I  attempted  it.  I  think  you  play 
nicely." 

The  other  laughed.  "I  only  play  when  I  am  quite 
sure  no  one  is  likely  to  hear  me.  There  is  one  piece  I  can 


"SWEET  GENEVIEVE"  77 

play,  and  of  which  I  am  very  fond.  I  heard  you  hum 
ming  it  the  other  day.  As  soon  as  the  parlor  is  'comfy/ 
I  shall  ask  you  to  condescend  to  listen  to  me  play  it." 

"What  piece  is  that?  Please  tell  me,"  Mildred  inquired. 

"Sweet  Genevieve." 

"Oh,  yes.  .  .  ." 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter,  dearest?"  cried  Constance, 
hurrying  toward  her. 

"Nothing,  nothing!"  said  the  other,  hastily  mopping 
her  nose  and  eyes. 

"Well,  I'm  relieved,  but  I  thought  I  heard  you  sob, 
but  of  course  you  didn't.  Of  course  not.  Really,  I  begin 
to  feel  that  if  I  don't  get  married  soon,  I'll  become  a 
nervous,  cranky  old  maid." 

"Please  don't  say  such  things  about  yourself,"  en 
treated  Mildred.  "You  were  not  mistaken.  I  did — ah — 
I  sobbed — I  mean  I  coughed.  I  had  something  in  my 
throat,"  she  concluded  nervously. 

"I'm  relieved,"  smiled  the  other,  and,  going  to  the 
piano,  she  struck  the  keys,  and  sang  in  a  high  contralto 
voice: 

"O,  Genevieve,  I'd  give  the  world 

To  live  again  the  lovely  past! 
The  rose  of  youth  was  dew-impearled; 

But  now  it  withers  in  the  blast. 
I  see  thy  face  in  every  dream, 

My  waking  thoughts  are  full  of  thee; 
Thy  glance  is  in  the  starry  beam 

That  falls  along  the  summer  sea." 

It  was  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning  when  Mildred 
Latham's  eyes  closed  in  sleep.  All  the  night  through, 
the  strains  of  Sweet  Genevieve  and  what  it  recalled,  tor 
tured  her  memory,  until  it  was  from  sheer  fatigue  that 
she  did  at  last  fall  asleep. 

She  hoped  Constance  would  play  Sweet  Genevieve  no 
more. 


CHAPTER  TEN 

"Do  Something  and  You'll  Find  Out" 

In  Attalia,  there  is  a  street  which  includes  all  that  goes 
with  Ethiopian.  It  is  called  Dalton  street,  and  along  its 
narrow  way — for  it  is  narrow,  and  one  of  the  oldest 
streets  in  the  city — occurs  much  that  is  deplorable. 

On  this  selfsame  street,  an  incident  took  place,  in 
which  Sidney  Wyeth  happened  to  figure  as  more  than 
the  casual  observer. 

It  was  in  late  afternoon  of  a  cold  wet  day.  He  had 
been  delivering  books,  and  had  a  considerable  amount 
of  the  proceeds  of  the  delivery  in  his  pockets,  when, 
while  on  the  way  to  the  office,  he  chanced  to  be  passing 
down  this  street.  He  looked  up,  and  found  himself 
before  a  large,  odd  appearing  structure.  A  uniformed 
man  stood  at  the  front,  and,  in  passing,  Wyeth  paused  a 
moment,  took  in  the  proportions  of  the  building  with  a 
critical  gaze,  and  inquired  of  the  man  what  it  was. 

The  other  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  which 
seemed  to  say:  "You  ought  to  know!"  But  grinning, 
he  replied: 

"Do  something  and  you'll  damn  quick  find  out!  It's 
the  police  station." 

"M-m-m-m!  You  wouldn't  be  likely  to  find  out  if 
you  didn't,  I  suppose,"  he  laughed,  as  he  continued  on 
his  way. 

During  Sidney  Wyeth's  bachelor  life  on  the  Rosebud, 
he  had  been  a  victim  of  the  habit  of  going  to  town,  and 
loafing  the  night  through,  occasionally.  There  had,  in 
the  beginning,  been  a  great  deal  of  gambling  there,  and 
to  watch  this  was  an  absorbing  pastime.  It  served,  also, 
as  he  then  felt,  as  a  diversion  to  break  the  monotony  of 
his  lonesome  life. 

Now   there   were   places — if   not   gambling   dens — in 

78 


"DO  SOMETHING,  YOU'LL  FIND  OUT"     79 

Attalia  also,  where  one  could  loaf  at  night.  When  his 
correspondence  was  completed  that  evening,  he  felt  a 
"Call  of  the  Wild"  in  his  blood,  and  went  forth  on  a 
pilgrimage  of  this  kind.  In  company  with  a  chauffeur, 
he  left  for  his  room  about  one  thirty  A.  M.  the  following 
morning.  They  had  not,  however,  gone  far  before  the 
clouds  had  gathered.  They  didn't  see  the  clouds — at  first 
— but  the  clouds  saw  them.  They  happened  to  be  a  pair 
of  meddlesome  bull-cops.  It  has  been  stated  that  the 
hour  was  about  one  thirty,  but  the  cops  said  two.  More 
over,  they  wished  to  know  what  business  occasioned  two 
young  men  to  be  out  at  such  an  hour. 

Sidney  felt  slightly  insulted,  and  stepped  aside  to  let 
them  by,  thereby  wishing  to  avoid  any  argument.  The 
cops  stepped  aside  also,  but  to  see  that  they  did  not  get 
too  far  out  of  the  way.  Said  one — and  he  was  the 
burliest — "Well,  boys,  where  have  you  been?"  "Where 
have  we  been?"  said  Wyeth,  to  himself.  "Now  wouldn't 
that  frost  you!"  What  business  of  these  men  was  it? 
They  had  positively  not  been  acting  suspicious,  nor  were 
they  seen  fighting,  and  neither  were  they  drunk.  So, 
then,  what  right  had  two  burley  cops  to  get  in  the  way, 
and  ask  such  impertinent  questions.  Sidney  felt  like 
making  an  indignant  reply,  he  felt  like  fighting;  then  he 
did  some  quick  thinking,  and  decided  to  be  patient, 
answering  the  questions  in  an  offhand  way,  and  so  be 
on  his  way,  for  he  felt  sleepy.  And  then,  again,  he 
observed  that  they  wore  great  big  sticks,  with  which 
they  toyed  idly,  as  they  waited  for  reply. 

"Aw,  knocking  around."  It  was  Wyeth  who  made 
this  reply. 

"Aw,  knockin'  'roun',"  said  the  big  cop,  who  had 
now  grown  ugly  in  the  sight  of  Wyeth,  and  he  repeated 
this  mockingly.  And  now  spoke  the  chauffeur,  who  had 
grown  up  in  those  parts.  He  was  diplomatic.  Said  he: 

"I'm  jes'  gettin'  off  frum  wo'k,  cap'n,"  and  despite 
his  look  of  truth  and  sincerity,  he  trembled  perceptibly. 

Sidney  observed  him  with  a  touch  of  disgust. 

"Is  that  so-o?"  said  the  cop,  more  sneeringly  now 
than  ever.  Sidney  had  enough,  and  started  to  go  by, 


80  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

but  the  blue-coat  blocked  his  way  roughly,  and  cried  out, 
with  club  grasped:  "Where  yu'  been,  nigger?" 

Wyeth  was  shocked  beyond  speech.  Evidently,  he 
had  not  as  yet  come  to  appreciate  that  he  was  otherwise 
than  on  the  Rosebud.  "Where  you  been,  nigger?" 
came  the  terrible  voice  once  more. 

Wyeth  woke  up.  Moreover,  he  became  obviously 
frightened.  He  replied — and  lo!  He  was  trembling  also, 
as  he  cried: 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Policeman!"  He  was  now 
wild-eyed.  "I'm  not  breaking  the  law;  I  have  done 
nothing;  I  am  on  the  way  to  my  room  and  to  bed.  Why 
do  you  hold  me  up  this  way.  I  don't  think  I  am  obliged 
to  answer  such  questions  as  you  ask;  but  I  have  been 
calling,  I  cannot  see  that  it  matters  where,  since — " 

"Aw  don't  talk  to  the  man  lak  dat,"  whimpered  the 
chauffeur. 

"I'll  knock  your  damned  head  off,  nigger!  What'n 
Hell's  got  hit'  you  to  talk  to  a  white  man  like  that!" 
He  turned  his  face  to  the  other  who  had  not,  up  to  then, 
said  anything,  and  said:  "Let's  arrest  them!"  The 
other  acquiesed.  "Come  on!"  he  roared,  grabbing  the 
chauffeur  by  the  belt  of  his  trousers,  and  whirling  him 
about.  The  other  caught  Sidney  likewise,  but  was  more 
civil  in  the  act. 

"Good  Lord,  Mister,"  said  he  to  his  cop,  "why  are 
you  arresting  us?  We  have  done  nothing!" 

"Got  orders  to  pick  up  everybody  after  one  o'clock 
who  looks  suspicious,  and  cannot  give  good  accounts  of 
themselves,"  he  replied  soberly. 

"I  wish  I  had  known  it,"  Wyeth  sighed  wearily; 
"but  I'm  at  least  glad  that  I  didn't  have  him  lead  me," 
he  said,  pointing  to  the  cop  who  had  the  chauffeur. 

"You  made  him  mad,"  grinned  the  patrolman.  "You 
must  not  live  here?" 

"No,  Lord,  and  I  wish  at  this  moment  I  had  never 
come." 

"When  a  white  man  speaks  to  you  down  here,  always 
answer  him  'sir!'  "  he  advised. 

"I  most  assuredly  will,  if  I  meet  any  more  like  him," 


"DO  SOMETHING,  YOU'LL  FIND  OUT"      81 

said  Sidney  meekly.  After  a  moment  of  silence  as  they 
stumbled  along,  he  said  thoughtfully:  "I  hate  this.  I've 
never  been  arrested  before  in  my  life.  Will  they  lock 
us  up?" 

"Oh,  sure!"   the  other  laughed. 

"M-m-m-m— m!" 

"  Jes'  lemme  go  this  time,  Mister, "  whined  the  chauffeur 
ahead,  "'n'  I  won'  neve'  be  out  late  no  mo'." 

"I'm  sorry,  son,"  said  the  bull-cop  a  little  kindly, 
"but  it's  impossible.  I  o'n'  think  you  are  bad  'tall,  but 
that  other  nigger's  crooked,  'n'  I  know  he  is,"  he  said, 
pointing  back  at  Wyeth.  He  was  overheard,  and  despite 
the  precarious  condition  Wyeth  realized  he  was  in,  he 
smiled. 

"He's  sho  got  a  bad  'pinion  a-you,  son,"  laughed 
Wyeth's  cop. 

"I'll  go  t'  bed  eve'  night  at  nine  'clock — eight  'f  you 
say  so,"  begged  the  chauffeur,  as  they  neared  the  patrol 
box. 

While  they  were  waiting  for  the  "wagon,"  the  copper 
with  the  chauffeur  in  charge  turned  that  worthy  over  to 
the  other  cop,  and  ran  across  the  street  to  intercept 
another  Negro.  That  one  happened  to  be  a  waiter  who 
worked  at  night,  and  was,  accordingly,  allowed  to  go  his 
way;  but  he  had  been  off  work  since  ten  o'clock.  Wyeth 
and  the  chauffeur  had  left  him  at  the  palm  garden  when 
they  departed,  but  that  was  no  argument  now.  The 
other  went  his  way,  whistling  cheerfully,  while  they  stood 
prisoners  of  the  law. 

It  was  a  dreadful  experience  for  Sidney  Wyeth. 

A  mighty  but  familiar  jingling  of  bells  proclaimed  that 
the  "wagon"  was  on  the  way,  and  in  an  incredibly  short 
time  they  were  pushed  inside.  As  the  door  closed,  with 
a  bigger  cop  than  the  others  between  the  culprits  (?)  and 
the  door,  these  words  came  to  Wyeth's  ears:  "Idling 
and  Loitering!" 

"Youse  the  cause  a-this,"  accused  the  chauffeur 
angrily. 

Wyeth  laughed  outright. 

"How  c'n  you  laf  'n'  us  on  the  way  t'  the  lock-up!" 


82  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

Wyeth  laughed  in  earnest  now,  while  the  bull  smiled 
naively. 

"I  wish  I'd  a-neve'  seen  you,"  said  the  other  wearily. 

"It's  vain  to  make  such  wishes  now;"  and  then  some 
thing  occurred  to  him.  He  had  been  to  the  bank,  but 
had,  fortunately,  not  deposited  all  he  had.  "Say,  Gover 
nor,"  he  cried,  "if  a  man  should  put  up  money  when  he 
is  taken  before  the  clerk,  or  whoever  it  is  that  receives 
us,  would  they  allow  him  to  return  without  locking  him 
up?"  His  inquiry  was  eager.  The  other  replied: 

"Most  assuredly." 

"Good!  How  much  will  I  have  to  put  up  to  keep  from 
being  locked  up?" 

"About  ten  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents." 

Wyeth  did  some  counting.  "I  have  ten  fifty.  Will 
they  let  me  out  on  that?" 

"I  think  so." 

"What  you  goin'  do  'bout  me?"  put  in  the  chauffeur. 

"Do  about  you!"  said  Wyeth.  "What  you  going  to 
do  about  yourself?  I'm  not  your  guardian." 

"But  I  ain'  got  bu'  fifty  cents,"  he  wailed  despairingly. 

"Then  methinks  you  will  sleep  on  Dalton  street  to 
night." 

They  had  arrived  at  the  station  by  this  time.  Wyeth 
recalled  a  few  hours  before  with  a  feeling  of  awe,  as  he 
recognized  the  place  and  the  words  the  man  had  used. 

"What's  your  name?"  demanded  the  clerk  of  the 
chauffeur. 

"Boise  Demon." 

"Yours!" 

Wyeth  gave  it,  and  as  the  clerk  made  a  record  of  it, 
he  made  inquiry  regarding  a  bond. 

"All  right.     Ten  seventy-five." 

"I  have  but  ten  fifty." 

"See  the  sargent." 

"What's  the  charge?"  inquired  that  orderly,  coming 
forward. 

"Id'ling  and  loitering." 

"Let  him  off  for  ten." 

"Pay  me  out,  pay  me  out!"   trembled  the  chauffeur. 


"DO  SOMETHING,  YOU'LL  FIND  OUT"      83 

"Shut  up!"  commanded  Sidney.  "Haven't  you  heard 
me  say  I  had  but  ten  fifty?" 

"Then  do'n  go,  do'n  go;  stay  with  me!" 
"Like  Hell,  I  will!"   exclaimed  Wyeth  with  a  laugh. 
The  officers  standing  about,  laughed  also,  and  said: 
"Don't  be  'fraid,  honey.    You'll  have  lots  a-company." 
Wyeth  handed  over  ten  dollars,  and  a  moment  later 
passed  into  the  street  where  a  soft  rain  was  falling. 
"Jesus,"   he  muttered;    "I'm  sure  glad   I   kept  that 
money."    And  then,  ere  he  had  got  far,  he  heard  a  cell 
door  clang,  and  thought  about  Demon.     At  the  same 
moment,  there  came  to  his  ears  the  music  of  many 
throats  singing:    "Don't  you  leave  me  here!" 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

"Jedge  L'yles'  Co't" 

Wyeth  sneaked  into  the  room  without  waking  Thur- 
man  that  morning.  Nor  did  he  inform  him  of  his  good 
fortune,  when  the  other  arose  two  hours  later  to  go  to 
work.  He  did  not  sleep  any  that  night,  and,  since  he 
had  to  be  to  the  court  at  eight-thirty  or  forfeit  his  bond, 
he  arose  early,  dressed,  and  in  due  time,  he  sat  in  the  large 
theatre. 

Perhaps  if  Sidney  Wyeth  had  suspected  what  would 
come  to  pass  that  morning,  he  would  have  forfeited  the 
bond  by  not  putting  in  his  appearance;  but  when  he 
put  up  the  collateral  the  night  before,  he  had  observed 
a  mark  of  respect  in  the  officers.  He  was  sufficiently 
acquainted  with  the  courts  from  a  distance,  to  realize 
that  the  average  Negro  brought  before  that  tribunal — 
with  the  possible  exception  of  a  boot-legger — seldom 
brought  any  money  or  had  any  at  home,  and  invariably 
went  in  great  numbers  to  the  stockade.  Moreover,  the 
sargent  and  the  clerk,  too,  had  advised  him  that  he 
might  not  possibly  be  fined  at  all.  Therefore,  when  he 
left  for  the  court,  he  had  no  thought  other  than  that  he 
would  go  free,  and  have  his  money  returned. 

"It  will,  of  course,"  they  had  said,  "depend  upon  how 
Judge  Loyal  feels  when  you  appear." 

He  had  heard  something  regarding  this  "feeling" 
before.  He  meditated  as  he  made  his  way  in  that  direc 
tion.  And  still  he  recalled  more  of  what  he  had  heard, 
which  was  to  the  effect  that  if  "his  stomach  was  upset, 
look  out!" 

He  hoped  Judge  Loyal  didn't  suffer  with  dyspepsia  or 
indigestion.  .  .  . 

As  he  neared  that  place  he  now  remembered  so  well, 
he  was  overwhelmed  with  memories.  He  recalled  this 

84 


"JEDGE  L'YLES'  COT"  85 

same  court,  more  than  ten  years  before.  It  was  in  a 
leading  magazine.  It  was,  moreover,  he  recalled,  an 
interesting  story,  too.  "Wonder  if  it  will  prove  so 
today,"  he  mused  silently.  .  .  . 

And  now  he  was  inside  the  court  room.  He  was  early, 
and  so  were  many  others.  He  recalled,  with  another 
twitch  of  the  memory,  that  Judge  Loyal  had  presided 
ten  years  before.  He  would  see  him  today.  "There  he 
is  now,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  an  old  man  with  white 
hair  came  upon  the  platform,  and  took  a  seat  behind  the 
bench. 

But  it  was  the  clerk.  Judge  Loyal  came  later,  so  did 
others,  many  others. 

And  now  all  that  he  had  read  in  that  article  many 
years  before,  suddenly  came  back  to  him  clearly.  It 
overwhelmed  him.  The  article  concerned  that  court — 
and  Negroes — Negroes — Negroes — a  court  of  Negroes. 
And  now  he  was  a  part  of  them.  Although  on  the  out 
side,  he  felt  guilty.  He  was  supposed  to  answer  when 
his  name  was  called. 

The  court  room  was  filling  rapidly.  They  were  herded 
behind  huge  doors,  to  the  left  of  the  room.  Black  men 
and  a  few  whites.  A  mass  of  criminal  humanity.  He 
shuddered.  He  wished  now  to  be  over  and  out  of  it  as 
soon  as  possible.  And  then  he  experienced  a  cold  fear. 
It  became  stronger.  It  developed  until  it  became  a 
chilly  premonition  that  Judge  Loyal  (Jedge  L'yles,  as  these 
Negroes  called  him)  would  be  feeling  badly  that  day. 
This  feeling  persisted  until  it  became  a  reality. 

It  was  now  eight-forty.  In  ten  minutes  court  would 
begin.  But  still  others  came,  and  came,  and  came. 
Women  and  men,  boys  and  girls — even  children.  And 
eighty  per  cent  of  them  were  Negroes,  his  people.  Would 
they  never  quit  coming?  What  manner  of  business  did 
these  people  conduct  that  brought  so  many  into  court? 
And  at  last  came  the  judge.  He  was,  in  all  appearance,  a 
young  man.  Evidently  he  was  not,  because  Sidney  had 
been  told  that  he  had  been  on  that  bench  for  twenty-five 
years. 

Court  was  then  opened.    Inside  a  fencing,  many  white 


86  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

people  sat  in  chairs.  Who  they  were,  or  what  part  of  the 
proceeding  they  represented,  he  could  not  tell.  Prisoners 
were  then  being  arraigned.  From  somewhere,  he  did  not 
see,  but  it  was  not  from  the  detention  room  where  the 
"great"  herd  was,  a  young  Negro  of  striking  appearance 
was  led  forward.  He  was  tall  and  slender,  and  what 
caught  the  attention  of  Sidney  Wyeth  was,  that  there 
was  nothing  criminal  in  his  appearance.  He  was  about 
twenty-five  years  of  age,  and  wore  shackles  about  his 
ankles,  as  well  as  upon  his  wrists.  He  made  a  pathetic 
picture.  Sidney  listened  carefully,  as  he  stood  before  the 
judge,  while  talking  in  an  undertone.  He  could  not 
hear  what  was  said,  but,  presently,  the  prisoner  was  led 
outside  and  away.  He  never  learned  what  charge  was 
made  against  this  young  man,  although  he  would  have 
liked  to  know. 

On  a  table  that  stood  to  one  side  of  the  bench,  behind 
which  the  judge  and  clerk  sat,  were  several  cases  of 
liquor. 

Evidence  against  some  poor  devil  was  strong,  thought 
Wyeth. 

The  gavel  fell. 

The  first  prisoner  brought  forward  and  placed  before 
the  judge,  was  a  Negro  of  medium  size  and  height,  and 
about  middle  age.  He  did  not  possess  the  look  of  a 
criminal  either.  In  fact,  not  all  of  these  people,  or  any 
great  part  of  them,  appeared  to  be  criminal,  if  Sidney 
Wyeth  had  observed  criminology  correctly.  Yet  there 
was  a  charge,  himself  for  instance.  This  one  was  charged 
with  having  been  drunk  and  making  a  big  noise. 

He  admitted  the  charge. 

"Where  did  you  get  it,"  demanded  Judge  Loyal. 

"On  Dalton  street." 

"Who  from?" 

"A  nigga." 

"Who  was  he?" 

"A  nigga." 

"I  don't  mean  that.    What  was  his  name?" 

"Dunno." 

"You  don't  know,  yet  you  purchased  enough  liquor  of 


"JEDGE  L'YLES'  COT"  87 

him  to  get  drunk,  whoop  it  up  and  disturb  the  peace  of 
the  populace." 

"Yassar." 

"Did  you  ever  see  him  before?" 

"Nawsar." 

"Was  it  corn  whiskey  or  rye?" 

"Niedda." 

"Well— what  was  it?" 

"Gin." 

"Oh!  Gin.  .  .  ." 

"Sparrow  Gin." 

"Ten  dollars  and  cost.    Next!" 

There  was  some  delay  before  the  next  ones  were  brought 
forward.  When  they  came,  there  was  some  anxiety. 
They  were  white  men  from  one  of  the  suburbs.  As  to 
how  they  happened  to  be  in  this  court  was  a  matter  for 
conjecture;  but  the  charge  was  fighting. 

A  witness  mounted  the  stand  by  request. 

"Your  name  is?—" 

"Bill  Sykes." 

"William  Sykes.  Very  well,  William  Sykes,  what  do 
you  know  about  this  affair?  Tell  it  to  the  court." 

"Yer'  'onah,  Judge,"  began  Sykes,  drawing  his  jeans 
coat  sleeve  across  his  mouth.  "Yistidy  I  left  home  'bout 
four  a-clock  'n'  come  dawn  to  Abe  Thomas'  store,  as  I 
usually  do  for  some  t'baccer." 

"State  what  you  know  about  this  disturbance,"  cut  in 
the  recorder's  voice.  "The  court  has  nothing  to  do 
about  your  tobacco." 

"Well,  's  I  started  to  say.  I  come  down  after  some 
t'baccer. " 

"Witness  ordered  removed  from  the  stand.  Put  up 
the  next,"  commanded  the  judge. 

Bill  Sykes  was  summarily  removed,  as  he  muttered: 
"This  is  shore  an  all  fired  place  to  tell  somethin'." 

"Your  name  is?" 

"Silas  Harris." 

"Silas  Harris,  state  briefly  to  the  court  what  you 
know  about  this  case." 


88  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"Well,  sir,  Judge,  yer  'onah.  It  was  sho'tly  afta'  fo' 
er-clock  when  I  came  down  to  Abe  Thomas'  store,  's  I 
always  do  to  get  a  chaw  t'baccer." 

The  judge  looked  disgusted.    Silas  resumed. 

"  'NM  wa'nt  no  morn7  inside  before  Chris  Tuttle  says, 
says  he  t'  me,  'ah  Si',  says  he  t'  me,  ah  gimme  a  chaw 
t'baccer.  Then  I  says  to  him,  says  I  t'  him,  'ah  Chris,' 
says  1 t'  him,  '  I  ain'  got  no  t'baccer,  'n'  I  jes'  come  down 
t'  see  'f  I  couldn't  get  a  chaw  pf'n  you!'  says  I  t'  him; 
'but,'  says  I,  says  1 1'  him.  ' I  ain'  got  no  t'baccer,  Chris,' 
says  I  t'  him;  'but  I  God,  I  got  some  a  's  good-a  ole 
rosin  as  yer  ever  broke  a  tooth  on.' ' 

"Case  Nolle-prossed . ' ' 

Several  Negroes  were  brought  before  the  bar  for 
various  misdemeanors,  were  fined  and  few  dismissed, 
while  a  great  many  were  bound  over.  The  next  case  to 
arouse  any  special  attention,  pertained  to  two  white 
girls  who  were  brought  forward  with  drooped  heads,  and 
made  a  picture  that  attracted  the  attention  of  the  crowd. 
The  recorder  frowned,  as  he  observed  then  questioningly. 

"What's  the  charge?"  he  inquired  of  the  officer,  who 
presented  himself  as  prosecutor. 

"Soliciting." 

"All  right,  prefer  it." 

"Your  honor,  Judge.  I  found  these  young  women 
hanging  around  Dewitt  and  Carlton  streets  this  morning 
about  one  o'clock,  and  advised  them  to  'beat'  it.  They 
disappeared  for  a  spell,  but  at  a  quarter  past  two  they 
were  out  again,  and  I  heard  them  and  saw  them  accost 
several  men  who  happened  to  be  coming  from  work. 
Presently  a  couple  halted,  and  a  few  minutes  later  the 
four  disappeared  within  a  rooming  house.  I  had  been 
watching  this  house,  and  was  positive  it  was  crooked. 
I  followed  them  a  little  later,  and  when  I  was  inside,  I 
looked  about  for  a  clerk  and  register  that  I  did  not  find. 
Then  I  overheard  talking  in  low  tones  in  a  couple  of  the 
rooms.  When  I  knocked  on  the  door,  all  was  quiet  and 
the  doors  were  not  opened.  I  then  demanded  the  doors 
be  opened  in  the  name  of  the  law.  A  scrambling  followed, 
I  heard  windows  go  up,  and  a  little  later  men  hit  the 


"JEDGE  L'YLES'  COT"  89 

ground  below.  When  I  entered  the  rooms  I  found  these 
young  women  alone,  and  put  them  under  arrest." 

The  court  room  was  very  silent.  All  eyes  were  upon 
the  prisoners.  The  fact  that  the  girls  were  both  beautiful 
seemed  to  provoke  the  judge,  and  he  was  very  cold  of 
demeanor. 

"What  excuse  have  you  to  offer  for  such  acts  of  in 
discretion?"  he  inquired  presently,  and  eyed  them 
severely. 

They  both  burst  out  crying  and  clung  to  each  other, 
which  made  a  very  pathetic  picture.  "We  wasn't  doing 
anything,  Mr.  Judge.  Not  anything.  We  lived  there 
and  the  men  were  our  husbands,"  said  one,  while  the  other 
cried  woefully.  The  recorder  eyed  them  critically,  before 
speaking  in  a  tone  of  extreme  severity: 

"Why,  then,  did  they  jump  out  the  windows  and  run 
away.  .  .  .  Don't  you  think  that  was  very  cowardly  for 
husbands?" 

"0-oh,"  they  cried  now  like  two  poor  souls  about  to 
enter  purgatory.  They  almost  made  others  cry,  too. 
But  the  judge  was  unbending.  He  looked  forbidding,  and 
as  cold  as  steel  as  he  said: 

"Young  women  like  you  two  should  exercise  more 
discretion.  If  you  must  conduct  yourselves  to  the  dis 
grace  of  the  community  in  such  manner,  you  should  keep 
off  the  streets  with  your  men  at  such  ungodly  hours. 
I  am,  therefore,  going  to  impose  a  fine  of  $10  and  costs 
upon  each  of  you  for  delinquency.  Next!" 

"Boise  Demon  and  Sidney  Wyeth!"  called  the  clerk 
with  his  eyes  on  the  docket. 

The  pair  now  stood  facing  the  court. 

"Your  Honor,"  began  the  officer,  who  had  Wyeth  in 
charge  the  night  before,  preferring  the  charge,  "we  found 
these  fellows  at  two  o'clock  this  morning,  going  in  the 
direction  of  Warren  street.  And  since,  as  you  know,  we 
have  orders  to  intercept  all  people  whose  appearance  is 
suspicious,  and  since  they  failed  to  give  an  account  of 
themselves  that  was  satisfactory,  we  considered  it  ex 
pedient  to  place  them  under  arrest." 

The  recorder  nodded  his  acquiescence. 


90  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"Your  name?"  he  inquired  of  the  chauffeur. 

"Boise  Demon." 

"And  yours?"  of  Wyeth. 

"What's  your  occupation,  Demon?" 

"I'm  a  chauffeur  'n'  wo'ks  fo'  Mr.  Baron  Ciders. 
You  know  him.  'Es  mah  boss.  'Es  got  a  office  in  the  — " 

"Why  weren't  you  at  home  in  bed  ten  hours  before 
you  were  charged  with  being  on  the  street?"  he  de 
manded. 

Demon's  jaw  fell.    Sidney  looked  discouraged. 

It  was  a  self-evident  fact  now  that  Judge  Loyal's 
stomach  was  out  of  order.  .  .  . 

Demon's  excuse  was  a  variation  that  failed  to  impress 
the  judge  as  being  the  truth.  Wyeth  languidly  resigned 
himself  to  the  inevitable. 

"What  is  your  occupation,  Wyeth?"  he  now  turned 
his  gaze  upon  Sidney. 

He  was  told. 

"What's  your  excuse  for  being  upon  the  streets  at  two 
A.  M.?" 

"Nothing!"  calmly. 

The  judge  regarded  him  in  silence,  while  the  pair 
waited  for  the  sentence.  Still  the  judge  paused.  As  he 
did  so,  Wyeth  heard  him  belch  slightly,  as  if  decided. 
A  moment  later  came  the  words: 

"Fine  you  fellows  $5  and  costs.  You  must  keep  off 
the  street  loafing  about  all  night.  Next!" 

They  were  turned  about  automatically,  and  then  Wyeth 
found  himself  looking  down  on  a  low,  deformed  creature. 
He  had  been  told  about  him  also,  and  why  he  was  de 
formed. 

It  had  come  about  during  a  terrific  race  riot  of  a  few 
years  before,  and  the  incident  will  ever  live  in  the  history 
of  Attalia.  It  was  then  this  creature  became  crippled. 
He  was,  at  the  time,  one  of  the  strongest  and  most 
capable  officers  on  the  force.  But,  upon  being  sent  to 
make  an  arrest,  he  happened  onto  a  "bad"  Negro,  run 
amuck.  He  was,  to  say  the  least,  however,  far  more 
fortunate  than  a  dozen  others,  for  they  had  been  sent  to 
their  happy  hunting  ground  before  the  riot  was  quelled. 
Since  then,  he  had  acted  as  a  sort  of  bailiff. 


"JEDGE  L'YLES'  COT"  91 

Peeping  up  at  Wyeth  he  said:  "You  have  up  col 
lateral,  do  you  not?" 

"Pay  me  out,  pay  me  out!"  cried  Demon,  at  this 
point. 

Wyeth  nodded. 

"Then  you  step  aside,  and  follow  the  officer  down 
stairs  to  the  clerk's  office,"  he  instructed. 

"Pay  me  out,  pay  me  out!"  from  Demon  again. 

Wyeth  frowned  and  pinched  him  good.  "I  wish  to 
confer  in  regard  to  this  fellow,"  said  he  to  hunchy,  as 
they  were  being  waited  for. 

In  the  detention  room,  Demon  secured  a  loan  of  fifty 
cents  from  another  miscreant,  and  a  moment  later,  they 
stood  before  the  clerk. 

When  the  fines  had  been  paid,  the  officer  said:  "Now 
Demon,  you  can  go,  but  I  am  ordered  to  hold  Wyeth  as 
a  suspicious  character." 

"Well  I'll  be  damned!"  was  all  Wyeth  said. 

"Take  me  at  once  before  him,"  he  cried,  when  they 
were  again  in  the  court  room,  at  the  same  time  flashing 
his  check  book  which  he  had  placed  in  his  pocket  for 
precautionary  measures.  Demon  had  followed  them 
gratefully  back  up  the  stairs,  and  now  stood  about 
muttering  in  a  low  tone:  "Ain'  that  Hell,  airi  that 
Hell!"  Wyeth  motioned  him  aside,  resolutely. 

Once  more  he  stood  before  his  Honor.  Upon  recog 
nizing  him,  the  recorder  looked  at  the  officer  with  a 
question.  His  face  had  cleared  of  the  frown  it  wore  some 
time  before,  and  Wyeth  concluded  his  stomach  was  better. 

The  officer  preferred  the  charge,  whereupon  he  looked 
at  Wyeth  keenly.  Wyeth  made  a  motion.  It  was 
granted. 

"I  dislike,  very  much,  your  Honor,  to  be  kept  in  this 
court  room  so  unceremoniously.  I  am  no  criminal,  and 
my  time  is  worth  something.  Now  if  I  may  be  permitted 
to  put  up  more  money,  I  have  just  paid  a  fine  for  being 
out  late  for  myself,  as  well  as  for  another,  and  go  my 
way  until  this  thing  is  done  with,  I'll  appreciate  it." 

"Very  well.     Twenty-five  dollars." 


92  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

Wyeth  paid  it,  and  never  returned  to  take  it  down. 

When  he  got  back  to  his  room  after  it  was  all  over, 
thirty-six  dollars  to  the  bad,  he  opened  the  book  of 
resolutions  and  recorded  therein: 

"Resolved!  That  to  give  heed  to  the  'Call  of  the 
Wild'  in  Attalia,  is  a  very  expensive  diversion,  albeit  a 
lesson;  therefore,  henceforth,  twelve  o'clock  will  find 
me  in  the  land  of  nod." 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

A  Jew;  a  Gentile;  a  Murder — and  Some  More 

"Look  here,  kid,  they  tell  me  they  had  you,"  jollied 
Spoon,  when  he  saw  Wyeth  that  evening  at  Hatfield's 
ice  cream  parlor. 

"You're  breaking  into  print,"  laughed  "Rubber"  Hat- 
field,  unfolding  a  green  sheet,  The  Searchlight,  a  sensa 
tional  four-page  afternoon  affair,  which  made  a  specialty 
of  court  news,  and  which  most  colored  people  read. 
They  are  fond  of  such  news. 

Frowning,  while  all  those  standing  about  laughed,  he 
took  the  sheet  and  read: 

NEGRO  FROM  THE  NORTH  WAS  SURPRISED 

In  a  few  colored  paragraphs,  it  described  his  appear 
ance  before  the  recorder.  And  in  conclusion,  it  had  these 
trite  words,  purported  to  have  been  said  by  him:  "Dey 
don7  have  dem  kind  of  laws  up  norf." 

The  following  Saturday,  he  dropped  into  Tompkins' 
and  was  introduced  to  a  man  who  impressed  him  con 
siderably.  At  the  first  glance,  he  could  see  he  was  not  a 
southerner.  Before  he  made  his  acquaintance,  he  over 
heard  him  discussing  books  with  Tompkins,  and  when 
he  heard  him  speaking  of  the  latest  works  of  fiction,  he 
opened  his  ears.  To  hear  a  Negro  in  Attalia  discussing 
novels,  the  late  ones,  was  something  new  to  him;  in 
fact,  he  had  heard  the  most  of  those  he  met  discuss  but 
one,  a  salacious  one  from  the  pen  of  a  noted  English 
author  and  playwright,  and  which  cannot  be  had  at  the 
libraries,  but  is,  nevertheless,  a  masterpiece. 

He  grasped  his  hand  cordially,  and  they  at  once 
entered  into  conversation.  His  name  was  Edwards. 
"This  gentleman,"  explained  Tompkins,  "is  the  author 

93 


94  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

of  the  book  you  and  your  friend  were  looking  at  this 
afternoon."  Edwards'  eyebrows  went  up  with  con 
siderable  pleasure,  as  he  cried  in  a  voice  that  was,  to  say 
the  least,  cordial: 

"Indeed!  I  am  honored  to  meet  a  real  author."  Sid 
ney,  however,  was  much  embarrassed.  He  disliked  to  be 
pointed  out  as  an  author  among  his  people.  The  most  of 
those  he  met  had  impressed  him  with  the  feeling  that  an 
author  must  be  something  extraordinary,  and  were  usually 
disappointed  to  find  them  only  human  beings  like  them 
selves.  Edwards,  however,  was  not  only  an  individual 
of  good  breeding,  but  one  with  perspective,  and  quite 
capable  of  appreciating  an  effort,  regardless  of  what  the 
attainment  might  be. 

Sidney  had  met  few  of  his  race,  but  who  seemed  to  feel 
that  to  write  was  to  be  graduated  from  a  school,  with  a 
name  that  was  a  fetish,  and  to  be  likewise  a  professor  in 
some  college.  In  order  to  get  material  and  color  for  a 
work,  they  had  not  yet  come  to  realize  that  it  was  best, 
and  much  more  original  as  well,  to  come  in  contact  with 
the  people  and  observe  their  manner  of  living. 

This  may  account,  in  a  large  degree,  for  the  fact  that 
so  many  whom  he  met  were  impractical,  even  badly 
informed. 

Edwards  and  he  became  agreeable  acquaintances  at 
once.  ' '  Come  take  dinner  with  me  this  evening, ' '  Edwards 
invited,  grasping  Wyeth's  arm,  and  leading  him  into  the 
restaurant  next  door,  where  he  had  already  ordered 
dinner.  And  such  a  meal!  Wyeth  had  not  realized  that 
it  was  in  the  range  of  possibilities  for  the  little  place  to 
prepare  such  a  one.  Moreover,  to  say  that  Edwards  knew 
how  to  order  would  be  putting  it  mildly.  He  spared  no 
cost  obviously,  since  the  meal  came  to  $3.75.  Wyeth  felt 
guilty,  when  he  recalled  that  he  ate  three  times  a  day  at 
the  same  place,  the  kind  termed  "half  meals,"  and  which 
came  to  fifteen  cents  per. 

Before  they  had  sat  long,  Edwards'  friend  came  to  the 
table.  And  of  all  the  Negroes  Sidney  had  met,  this  one 
was  the  most  extraordinary.  The  son  of  a  Japanese 
mother  and  a  Negro  father,  he  had  been  educated  aoroad. 


A  JEW;  A  GENTILE;  A  MURDER  95 

He  spent  his  youth  in  Asia,  lived  a  portion  of  his  life  in 
Japan,  the  remainder  in  America  and  was  a  Buddhist. 
One  Negro  at  least  who  didn't  spell  "ligon." 

History  and  science,  from  the  beginning  of  time — before 
Adam  whom  he  scorned,  astronomy,  astrology,  meteor 
ology,  the  zodiac  and  the  constellations,  in  fact,  he 
seemed  to  know  everything.  Sidney,  anxious  always  to 
learn  what  he  did  not  know,  could  only  sit  with  mouth 
wide  open,  while  the  other  declared  Jesus  of  Nazareth, 
Noah,  the  flood,  Adam  and  Eve,  and  all  the  rest,  the 
biggest  liars  the  world  ever  knew. 

When  Sidney  had  occasion  to  speak  of  him  to  religious 
Negroes  in  after-months,  they  would  say:  "Shucks!  He 
couldn't  a-convinced  me  'gainst  mah  Jaysus."  And  he 
would  then  be  sorry.  Sidney  "believed"  as  much  as  any 
one  else  of  moderate  intelligence,  and  his  acquaintance 
with  the  unusual  Negro  had  no  effect  whatever  upon  him 
as  a  believer;  but  he  knew  that  many  of  those  who 
professed  so  much  faith  in  "Jaysus"  and  cried:  "We  is 
God  fearin'  fo'kes,"  were  mere  "feelers"  who  had  no 
thought  of  God  whatever,  in  the  sense  he  should  be 
regarded  and  respected.  Indeed,  they  did  not  fear  him. 
They  feared  but  one  thing,  these  black  people,  and  that 
was  the  white  man,  which  belongs  to  another  chapter. 

"  I  grant  all  you  say  to  be  quite  possible,  my  dear  sir," 
said  he,  when  the  other  paused  in  his  serious  discourse; 
"but,  having  been  raised  to  the  Christian  faith,  I  am, 
therefore,  a  hopeless  believer.  I  do,  nevertheless,  respect 
your  point  of  view  and  your  faith,  and  am  glad  indeed 
to  have  met  you,"  which  ended  it. 

Edwards  proved  to  be  a  graduate  of  Yale,  and  was  well 
informed  in  every  way,  as  Sidney  suspected. 

He  had  always  found  it  this  way.  The  great  fault  he 
was  finding  daily  with  those  of  his  race,  was  that  they  did 
not  read,  did  not  observe,  and  were  not  informed  in  the 
many  things  they  could  just  as  well  have  known. 

As  the  days  went  by,  Sidney's  friendship  with  Edwards 
developed  to  the  point,  where  Edwards  insisted  upon 
paying  half  the  rent  for  the  privilege  of  loafing  in  the 
office  whenever  he  was  at  leisure.  Sidney  did  not  inquire 


96  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

his  business,  or  what  he  was  engaged  in;  but  his  duriosity 
was  aroused  nevertheless.  His  friend  always  had  plenty 
of  money  and  spent  it  not  foolishly,  but  freely.  He  never 
permitted  Wyeth  to  pay  for  anything,  and  he  never  ate 
a  meal  that  came  to  less  than  two  dollars. 

After  a  few  days,  another  fellow  joined  him,  who, 
while  surrounded  with  an  air  of  mystery,  did  not  happen 
to  possess  so  much  apparent  education.  His  name  was 
Smyles,  and  he  purported  to  be  from  Boston.  At  the 
same  time  acknowledged  Alabama  to  be  his  birth  place. 
He  still  carried  the  accent.  He  was  dark  of  visage,  had 
long  legs,  and  wore  trousers  around  them,  which  appeared 
never  to  have  been  pressed.  (Wyeth  wondered  why  some 
of  the  many  pressing  clubs  did  not  kidnap  him  alive.) 
His  head  was  small  and  obviously  hard,  and  he  wore  his 
top  hair  so  closely  cropped,  that  no  one  could  quite 
describe  what  kind  it  was. 

Now  Smyles  was  a  sport,  likewise  a  spender,  and, 
moreover,  with  money  a-plenty  to  spend.  And,  as  the 
days  passed  and  Wyeth  became  better  acquainted  with 
him,  he  learned  that  he  was  "mashed"  on  the  girls  to  a 
considerable  degree.  For  instance:  There  was  Lucy, 
who  waited  on  them  at  Miss  Payne's  cafe,  who  got 
"crazy"  about  him.  He  did  about  her,  too,  for  awhile, 
at  least  he  pretended  to.  Then  he  became  interested 
likewise  in  another  who  had  "better  hair"  than  Lucy. 
Thereupon  Lucy  became  "mad"  with  jealousy,  and 
threatened  to  do  something  "awful."  She  didn't,  so  we 
leave  her  to  her  fate,  and  go  on  with  Smyles  who  becomes, 
for  the  present,  the  hero  of  this  story. 

"Smyles  is  a  great  fellow,"  remarked  Sidney  humor 
ously  to  Edwards,  one  day. 

"Isn't  he  the  limit?"  said  Edwards,  with  a  touch  of 
disgust. 

"All  the  girls  are  liking  him,"  resumed  Sidney,  enjoying 
the  conversation  and  discussion. 

"Takes  with  all  the  kitchen  mechanics,  and  anything 
else  that  wears  a  skirt."  Edwards  had  dignity,  a  great 
deal  of  it,  Wyeth  had  come  now  to  know.  He  was  plainly 
disgusted.  Sidney  went  on. 


A  JEW;  A  GENTILE;  A  MURDER  97 

"Has  lots  of  money  to  spend,  which  makes  it  exceed 
ingly  convenient." 

"He's  the  luckiest  coon  in  town/'  said  Edwards 
thoughtfully. 

"Indeed!" 

"Shoots  craps  I  think." 

"And  wins,  evidently." 

That  Wyeth  might  not  gather  an  adverse  opinion  of 
him — or  rather,  a  questionable  one,  Edwards  had  in 
formed  him  that  he  was  connected  with  a  northern 
philanthropic  organization.  Wyeth  assumed  that  he  was 
connected  with  something  of  the  kind,  and  that  he  was 
actually  the  recipient  of  plenty  of  the  dispensation. 
Every  Monday  he  would  go  uptown,  and  return  with  a 
roll.  Most  of  this  would  be  spent  by  the  next  Monday, 
which  was  unusual. 

He  didn't  gamble,  but  better  light  will  be  thrown  on 
this  later. 

About  a  year  before,  there  had  been  committed  in 
Attalia,  a  most  dastardly  murder.  A  man,  a  Jew  he  was, 
had  killed  a  little  girl,  a  gentile.  This  murder  had  oc 
casioned  more  comment  in  those  sections,  than  had  any 
thing  in  the  way  of  crime  for  a  decade.  We  stated  that 
the  Jew  had  killed  the  girl;  it  should  have  been  said 
that  he  was  accused  of  having  killed  her. 

This  was  the  state  of  affairs  in  regard  to  the  murder 
at  the  time  of  our  story.  Notwithstanding  the  fact  that 
the  Jew  was  accused  of  the  murder,  the  charge  against 
him,  and  the  public  sentiment  in  particular,  had  reached 
a  very  serious  stage.  It  would  have  been  very  serious 
for  any  one  to  be  accused  of  such  a  crime  in  those  parts, 
be  she  gentile,  Jewess,  or  anyone  with  a  white  face. 

The  body  of  this  girl  had  been  found  in  the  basement 
of  a  factory,  at  which  she  was  employed  at  a  very  small 
wage,  foully  murdered.  It  was  a  mystery  at  first,  as  to 
who  was  the  murderer.  A  Negro  had  been  arrested  and 
charged  with  the  crime.  It  appeared  that  he  was  surely 
guilty;  but  he  wasn't — at  least  so  it  was  decided  shortly 
afterwards.  It  was  confidentially  whispered  about  town 


98  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

to  this  day,  and  may  be  for  all  time,  that  he  was  a  lucky 
Negro,  too.  Because,  with  the  way  they  treat  Negroes 
accused  of  doing  much  less  serious  things  in  a  part  of 
this  country,  he  was  fortunate  to  have  been  accused  in 
Attalia,  where  protection  is  quite  ample  now,  and  not  in 
some  of  the  smaller  places — but  we  are  digressing. 

Evidently  he  was  not  felt  to  be  guilty,  and,  more 
over,  since  suspicion  was  quickly  diverted  to  the  Jew. 
And  yet  he,  the  Negro,  had  been  discovered  in  the  back 
yard  of  the  factory,  washing  a  bloody  shirt.  Such  in 
criminating  evidence!  For  some  reason,  the  people  could 
not  seem  to  bring  themselves  to  feel  that  the  Negro  had 
sense  enough  to  kill  the  girl,  had  he  wished  to.  He  was 
put  through  a  severe  examination  of  some  length,  and 
finally  confessed  to  having  helped  the  real  murderer 
dispose,  or  try  to  dispose  of  the  body  after  it  was  all  over. 
It  was,  of  course,  duly  found  and  as  duly  buried.  It  was, 
thereafter,  exhumed  two  or  three  times,  as  evidence  for 
the  state.  The  Jew  was  discovered  acting  very  peculiarly 
a  few  days  after  the  murder.  So  they  had  taken  him  into 
custody  to  ascertain  the  cause  of  these  actions.  Accusa 
tions  followed,  and  he  was  in  time  brought  before  the 
high  tribunal  on  a  charge  of  murder,  convicted  and 
sentenced  to  be  hanged  until  dead,  however  long  that 
might  be.  The  date  of  execution  was  set  for  a  day,  which 
happened  to  be  the  same  day  a  year  later,  than  that  upon 
which  he  was  supposed  to  have  committed  the  deed. 

Thus  our  story  found  it. 

Sentencing  a  man  to  be  hanged,  and  hanging  him, 
however,  are  two  very  different  things.  Yet  the  court 
persisted.  It  was  determined  to  carry  out  the  decision 
of  the  jury  of  "twelve  good  men  and  true,"*  this  Jew,  scion 
of  Jacob,  of  Israel,  of  Solomon,  and  Job,  and  others,  had 
money  at  his  back,  plenty  of  it,  as  we  shall  see  presently; 
and  they  were  spending  it  lavishly,  to  save  his  neck, 
which  was  long.  Perhaps  that  explains  what  came  to 
pass  later. 

*Author's  Note:  The  usual  term  applied  to  juries  is,  "Twelve 
good  men  and  true." 


A  JEW;  A  GENTILE;  A  MURDER  99 

The  counsel  for  the  defense  hired  a  detective,  A 
Great  Detective.  The  greatest  detective  in  all  the  world. 
No  one  can  deny  this,  since  he  said  so  himself,  at  least 
this  is  how  he  was  quoted  by  a  paper,  which,  for  the 
purpose  of  this  story,  we  shall  call  the  "Big  Noise. " 
It  was  a  "noise,"  too.  But,  to  get  back  to  the  detective, 
The  Great  Detective. 

The  leading  papers  corroborated  the  fact  that  he  was 
the  greatest  in  the  world,  and  so  he  shall  be,  in  this  story, 
as  well.  We  are  compelled  to  quote  the  "Big  Noise" 
again.  It  claimed,  very  urgently,  that  these  papers  were 
paid  to  corroborate  the  detective.  So  be  it. 

The  leading  dailies  and  the  greatest  detective  in  the 
world  got  together,  with  a  view  to  obtaining  a  new  trial 
for  the  Jew,  after  which  they  hoped,  of  course,  in  some 
subtle  manner,  to  extricate  him  from  his  very  embar 
rassing  predicament. 

The  detective  did  the  posing,  and  he  was  some  poser, 
and  the  papers  did  the  rest.  The  most  obstinate  propo 
sition  which  they  were  up  against,  was  that  the  people 
believed  the  Jew  to  be  guilty,  but  naturally  read  the 
papers. 

Now  The  Great  Detective's  picture  had  been  seen  by 
almost  everybody  who  read,  or  ever  had  read  anything, 
so  we  must  appreciate  that  he  was  a  familiar  figure.  But, 
in  addition  to  what  had  occurred  in  regard  to  the  detec 
tive,  more  came  to  pass.  Pages  of  the  Sunday  edition 
were  devoted  to  his  cut,  and  other  pages  to  his  ability 
as  a  mystery  solver.  From  the  way  the  papers  wrote  of 
him  and  reproduced  his  pose,  he  made  Sherlock  Holmes, 
Raffles,  Arsene  Lupin,  and  even  Nick  Carter,  look  like 
thirty  cents  with  the  three  invisible. 

He  began,  in  opening  the  case,  a  series  of  angles.  At 
first,  of  course,  he  viewed  it  from  an  Attalia  angle. 
Forthwith,  after  this,  he  went  to  Chicago  and  viewed  it 
from  a  windy  angle.  From  St.  Louis,  he  viewed  it  from 
a  "show  me"  angle;  and  while  he  was  out  that  way,  he 
chased  across  to  Kansas  City,  and  saw  it  from  that  angle. 
And  'ere  anyone  was  aware  of  it,  he  had  crossed  the 
prairies  to  Denver,  and  viewed  it  from  a  mountain  angle. 


100  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

Behold  then,  upon  picking  up  the  morning  paper,  where 
the  great  detective  has  reached  New  York,  and  was 
viewing  the  case  from  that  angle;  but  space  will  not 
permit  of  recording  further  these  many  angles  indulged 
in  by  the  greatest  detective  in  the  world,  for  the  defendant 
in  the  case  of  the  state  versus  the  Jew. 

All  of  these  angles  were  followed  with  much  color  by 
the  Attalia  papers.  Moreover,  papers  elsewhere  mysteri 
ously  took  up  the  Jew's  cause,  by  following  the  angles 
of  the  detective.  All  except  the  "Big  Noise."  It  was 
busy  viewing  the  detective  from  its  angle.  But  it  was 
not,  of  course,  endowed  with  such  an  abundance  of 
readers,  therefore,  for  the  time,  it  was  not  noticed  much. 
It  was  later,  however. 

Now  we  come  to  the  most  extraordinary  phase  of  the 
case,  leaving  the  prisoner  in  his  cell  for  the  present. 

While  all  this  angling  was  going  on,  witnesses  who  had 
testified  for  the  state,  and  whose  testimony  had  resulted 
disasterously  for  the  defendant,  began  to  come  up  mys 
teriously,  with  affidavits  to  the  effect  that  what  they 
had  sworn  to  was  a  falsehood,  no,  a  lie!  Many  of  them 
declared,  in  these  affidavits,  that  they  were  inspired  to 
make  these  statements,  that  they  might  face  their  God 
with  the  truth  on  their  lips!  The  city  became  chaotic. 
No  one  had  even  suspected  that  the  city  possessed  such 
people.  This  renouncing  of  testimony  developed  into  an 
almost  everyday  affair.  "Everybody  was  doin'  it".  So 
it  came  to  pass,  in  an  incredibly  short  time,  that  almost 
every  one  who  had  supplied  damaging  testimony  against 
the  Jew,  had  renounced  it. 

The  newspapers  were  the  most  interesting  things  to 
read  in  Attalia  during  this  spell.  But  more  mysteries 
followed  in  due  order.  Every  one  who  produced,  or  had 
produced  an  affidavit,  renouncing  his  or  her  previous 
testimony,  became  automatically  prosperous,  no,  we'll 
have  to  change  this  statement.  They  did,  and  again 
they  didn't.  Alas!  Some  had  not  received  all  they  had 
been  mysteriously  promised,  it  seems.  And  still  others, 
unaccustomed  to  wealth,  and  feeling  that  money  is  right 
fully  the  medium  for  the  good  things  they  had  never 


A  JEW;  A  GENTILE;  A  MURDER         101 

been  able  to  enjoy,  including  liquor,  proceeded  to  fulfill 
this  long  felt  desire.  So,  many  got  drunk.  And,  trust 
John  Barleycorn  to  do  the  rest,  they  imparted  secrets  to 
their  near  friends.  And  then,  of  course,  the  friends  im 
parted  such  illuminating  information  to  their  friends, 
whereupon  it  was  duly  imparted,  in  time,  to  the  people 
through  the  paper. 

Truth  combined  with  a  conscience,  is  always  a  danger, 
a  menace  to  falsity.  And,  of  course,  not  every  one  pos 
sesses  the  strength  to  stand  on  a  falsehood,  therefore — and 
in  an  incredibly  short  time — affidavits  began  to  be  vol 
untarily  offered  by  these  many,  to  the  effect  that  the 
renunciation  was  a  falsehood;  the  original  testimony 
was  true,  quite  true.  Accompanying  many  of  these  latter 
affidavits,  was  money. 

We  are  reminded  at  this  point  of  Judas  and  the  thirty 
pieces  of  silver. 

Conspicuous  throughout  the  trial,  and  conducting  the 
prosecution,  was  one  Doray,  the  solicitor,  and  he  was 
there,  very  much  so.  Doray  became  quite  busy  about 
this  time.  He  had  ambition,  and  was  being  mentioned 
for  the  governorship.  So  the  state,  with  its  many  poor 
people  and  slim  treasury,  labored  relentlessly  in  the 
prosecution,  while  the  purse  of  the  Jew  seemed  to  have 
no  limit. 

We  return  to  The  Great  Detective,  the  greatest  one  in 
all  the  world. 

Naturally,  when  he  began,  with  the  reputation  he  pos 
sessed,  with  the  notorious  angling,  with  hundreds  of 
newspapers  all  over  the  country  supporting  him,  and 
from  the  fact  that  he  had  uncovered  many  dark  plots, 
many  people  took  notice.  A  half  dozen  extra  editions 
was  the  average  per  day,  but  some  days  they  reached  a 
dozen,  all  replete  with  subtle  mystery.  The  populace 
lived  in  an  ecstacy  of  expectation.  They  were  hurdled 
between  so  many  conflictions,  until  they  knew  not  what 
they  were  expecting.  But,  as  the  days  went  by  and  the 
mystery  deepened,  they  glared  dry-eyed  at  the  headlines 
of  the  many  extras,  expecting  at  last  that  the  greatest 
detective  in  the  world  would  lead  forth  a  diabolical 


102  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

creature  otherwise  than  the  Jew,  declaring,  and  sub 
sequently  proving  him  to  be  the  murderer. 

He  did,  but  he  was  not  a  man  of  mystery. 

The  announcement  came  in  a  blazing  morning  extra. 
Shops  were  forgotten,  people  gathered  upon  the  streets, 
blocked  the  corners,  and  everything  became  a  medley  of 
excitement,  as  the  news  became  general. 

"The  real  murderer  of  a  little  innocent  girl  has  been 
found!" 

The  population  waited  in  abated  breath.  In  the  order 
in  which  he  had  reported,  or  as  had  been  reported  by  the 
papers,  the  detective  set  a  day  upon  which  he  would 
point,  with  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand,  straight  to 
the  murderer. 

The  day  would  never  come,  everybody  seemed  to  feel. 
All  the  anxiety  attendant  during  the  trial,  before  as  well 
as  after,  for  it  must  be  understood  that  the  Jew  had  not 
been  seen  to  kill  the  girl,  was  lived  over  again  during  this 
spell.  But  at  last  the  mighty  day  came.  It  was  a  dark, 
drizzly,  gloomy,  forlorn  day.  Just  the  kind  for  what  was 
now  the  order  in  Attalia.  On  this  day,  the  people  now 
felt,  the  real  murderer  would  be  placed  in  the  lime  light. 
The  detective  had  declared,  a  few  days  after  he  had  been 
retained  and  put  on  the  case,  that  the  Jew  was  innocent. 
Moreover,  he  declared  that  the  prosecution,  abetted  by 
public  sentiment,  had  been  affected  in  its  decision,  by 
the  worst  of  all  that  is  inherent  in  our  advanced  society, 
race  prejudice.  He  lied  here — and  knew  it.  There  is 
no  prejudice  in  Attalia  against  any  race  but  one,  of  which 
we  will  pass.  In  addition,  he  flaunted  in  the  face  of  the 
people,  the  idea  of  perversion  on  the  part  of  the  Jew,  of 
which  the  latter  had  been  accused.  This  accusation  had 
been  advanced  as  the  only  excuse  for  the  murder,  of 
which  he  stood  accused.  But  the  real  murderer  was  that 
day  announced  as  per  reports. 

"Jim  Dawkins,"  cried  the  detective,  "killed  that  girl! 
So  now,  free  this  poor  man  thou  hast  persecuted  these 
many  months,  and  hang  that  murderer,  that  beast,  that 
pervert,  for  he  is  guilty!" 

It  was  some  time  before  the  people  recovered.    Many 


A  JEW;  A  GENTILE;  A  MURDER         103 

of  them  had  to  pinch  themselves  to  be  quite  sure  they 
were  awake;  for  it  was  positively  incredible,  after  all 
this  waiting,  after  all  this  angling,  after  all  the  mystery, 
that  this  detective,  the  greatest  one  in  all  the  world,  by 
his  own  admission  and  that  of  the  press,  should  come 
right  back  to  where  the  case  had  begun. 

Jim  Dawkins  was  the  Negro  accused  in  the  first  in 
stance. 

And  now  we  hear  from  the  "Big  Noise" — and  it  made 
some  noise  now.  Moreover,  the  public,  with  a  relief 
from  their  long  tension,  began  to  hear  it.  Its  editor  had 
once  run  for  president,  on  a  ticket  we  cannot  recall; 
moreover,  he  had  the  reputation  of  being  opposed  to 
every  man  elected  to  anything  in  the  state  and  the 
United  States.  This  included  the  democrats,  of  whom 
he,  although  a  southerner,  was  not  one. 

The  people  now  bought  and  read  his  paper  with  as 
much  eagerness  as  they  had  the  others,  in  the  beginning. 

The  Great  Detective  was  absent  for  a  week  following  his 
sensational  discovery.  (?)  Then  he  returned,  but  alas! 
The  day  of  angles  had  become  contagious,  as  we  shall 
see  presently. 

Following  his  return,  he  happened  to  go  to  a  nearby 
town  to  view  the  case  from  that  angle.  This  town  hap 
pened  to  have  been  the  home  of  the  murdered  girl.  So, 
when  the  great  detective  whirled  into  town,  seated  in 
the  tonneau  of  a  huge  automobile,  they  proceeded  at 
once  to  entertain  him  with  true  southern  chivalry.  (?) 

A  night  extra  told  all  about  it,  before  he  had  returned 
to  Attalia,  which  was  marvelous,  when  one  considers  this 
place  was  only  twenty  miles  away,  and  from  reports,  the 
car  took  its  highest  speed  on  the  return,  at  least  it  did 
in  leaving  the  other  town.  But,  lest  we  forget,  the  eggs 
used  at  this  entertainment  could  not  all  have  been 
guaranteed  as  the  freshest.  And  with  a  few  more  words, 
we  leave  this  story. 

Shortly  after  this,  Edwards  and  Smyles  took  their 
leave.  Wyeth  missed  them  considerably,  for  he  had 
grown  very  fond  of  them  about  the  office.  When  they 
were  far,  far  away,  the  mystery  connected  with  their 


104  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

occupation  was  still  unsolved.  Then,  one  day  while 
Sidney  was  folding  up  an  old  newspaper,  his  eye  happened 
to  fall  upon  an  article  of  two  paragraphs.  It  related  to 
an  incident  that  cleared  up  the  whole  thing,  and  was  to 
the  effect  that,  while  doing  some  sleuthing  on  the  ground 
floor,  Smyles  had,  after  refusing  to  explain  the  occasion 
of  his  mysterious  action,  been  arrested  and  locked  up  for 
an  hour,  at  the  end  of  which  the  great  detective  had  come 
forward  and  got  him  out. 

"Well,  I'll  be  blowed!"  exclaimed  Sidney,  for  it 
revealed  that  his  two  friends  were  detectives,  in  the 
employ  of  the  noted  chief,  and  hired,  no  doubt,  to  view 
the  case  from  a  "dark"  angle.  But  the  most  extra 
ordinary  part  of  it  all,  was  that  their  names  were  not 
Smyles  nor  Edwards  either,  but — I  guess  it  doesn't 
matter. 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

"Cause  Nigga's  's  Gittin'  so  Rich" 

In  the  building  to  the  furthest  end  from  where  Wyeth's 
office  was  now  located,  he  observed  a  man  one  day.  He 
was  standing  in  front  of  the  bank.  He  was  a  white  man, 
and  was  tall  and  slender,  while  his  complexion  was  sandy, 
his  hair  red  and  awry.  His  eyes  were  keen  and  piercing. 
"A  collector/'  thought  Sidney,  for  there  were  so  many 
about  the  building,  especially  on  Monday,  and  this  was 
the  day.  He  lurked  in  the  entry  on  Tuesday,  when 
Wyeth  passed  that  way.  "Must  be  a  contractor,  the 
way  he  is  studying  the  inside  of  the  bank/'  mumbled 
Wyeth,  as  he  took  the  elevator  upward. 

Wednesday  came,  gray  and  gloomy,  and  then  it  rained. 
It  was  four  o'clock  and  thirty  minutes  in  the  afternoon. 
Sidney  passed  through  the  entry  to  the  elevator  on  his 
way  to  the  office  of  Dickson,  and  again  the  man  stood 
there.  He  had  drawn  no  conclusion  as  to  what  was  the 
occasion  of  this  presence,  when  from  behind  came  a 
sound.  He  did  something  else  then.  So  did  others 
about  him. 

"Throw  up  your  hands,  nigger,  and  get  into  that 
vault!"  came  a  command. 

It  was  from  the  man  he  had  seen,  and  he  was  holding 
up  the  bank. 

There  was  a  silence,  followed  by  a  scuffle,  then  a  lull, 
and  a  shot,  and  still  later, — for  the  shot  went  wild, 
landing  in  the  ceiling  where  it  cracked  the  plastering, 
and  made  bits  of  it  fall  upon  a  score  of  frightened 
Negroes — a  thud.  This  had  not  gone  amiss.  There  was 
a  groan  and  a  dull  sound,  as  some  one  sank  to  the  floor. 
This  part  was  witnessed  by  Wyeth  and  others.  It  was 
the  teller,  and  the  son  of  the  bank's  president.  On  the 
floor  he  lay  bleeding,  while  the  other  was  standing 

105 


106  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

frightened  over  him.  Then  he  looked  up.  Open-mouthed 
like  dumb  creatures,  Negros  of  all  shades,  including  the 
green,  stood  about.  And  then  the  man  seemed  to  awaken 
to  the  emergency,  and  the  danger. 

Those  Negroes  would  not  be  dumb  for  all  time.  He 
sensed  this  aright.  And  then  he  took  initiative,  action. 
With  a  flash,  he  fired  off  the  huge  gun,  and  with  a  leap 
and  a  bound,  he  came  forth,  while  Negroes,  black  and 
brown,  yellow  and  green,  and  some  white,  fell  back  upon 
each  other,  in  a  hurry.  He  had  plenty  of  room,  for  a  time, 
and  made  use  of  it.  Out  into  the  hallway  he  must  per 
force  come  on  his  way  to  the  street,  and  freedom.  He 
started,  but  one  little  moment  he  hesitated.  Then,  firing 
again,  he  made  his  great  rush.  Through  the  hallway  he 
dashed,  and  entered  the  street  through  a  side  door  that 
was  open  before  him.  A  moment  later  he  was  gone. 

But  so  were  the  others. 

They  were  led  by  a  barber,  who  shaved  black  faces 
next  door.  He  was  a  mulatto  with  a  flat  nose,  which 
made  his  appearance  grotesque.  With  a  roar  like  that  of 
a  mad  guerilla,  he  ran  in  hot  pursuit.  Away  they  went, 
all  of  them  now,  including  Wyeth. 

The  barber  led  the  others  by  far,  and  in  his  hand, 
open  for  action,  was  a  razor.  It  seemed  quite  large  to 
Wyeth  as  it  glistened  in  the  sunlight,  for  the  day  had 
cleared.  Perhaps  he  was  seeing  double,  but  he  followed 
while  the  "victim" — which  we  shall  call  the  other — pre 
ceded  the  other  only  slightly.  The  barber  was  breaking 
wind  now,  but  gaining  nevertheless. 

As  Wyeth  followed  in  that  dark  pursuit,  a  picture  of 
the  possible  consequences  rose  before  him.  This  Negro, 
scion  of  two  races,  embittered  by  an  instance  in  our 
history  that  will  never  die,  was  wild.  Blood,  blue  blood, 
it  was  he  thirsted.  All  the  hatred  of  a  thousand  or  more 
years  was  now  privileged,  by  the  unwritten  law,  to  give 
vent.  This  other  has  attempted  crime — the  robbery  of 
the  people's  wheise-with-all.  To  kill  him  now  was  to  get 
revenge,  revenge  'upon  those  who  have  long  since  died — 
and  go  scott  free! 

Perhaps  the  other  appreciated  this  point  of  view. 


'  'CAUSE  NIGGA'S  'S  GITTIN'  SO  RICH"    107 

He  rushed  pellmell,  wildly  through  the  street  he  came 
into,  and  turned  at  the  end  up  another  that  led,  whither, 
he  did  not  take  time  to  think  or  to  consider.  It  seemed 
impossible  for  the  man  to  escape  dire  consequences,  as 
Sidney  Wyeth  saw  him  now.  He  wished  he  could  save 
him,  but  he  did  not  know  how.  Only  a  few  steps  ahead, 
the  culprit  led  the  other.  It  was  only  a  question  of 
minutes — a  minute.  And  then — horrors! 

Up  this  new  street,  which  happened  to  be  Herald,  they 
went,  and  closer  and  closer  the  Negro  came  to  the  victim. 
He  was  breaking  wind  fearfully.  A  block  had  been 
covered,  when,  ahead  to  the  left  stood  a  laundry  with 
doors  wide  open.  Then,  suddenly,  when  abreast  of  it, 
the  victim  plunged  into  it,  but  so  did  the  barber.  Others 
followed,  and  workers  fell  back  amazed.  To  the  rear  the 
chase  led,  and  then,  lo!  A  brick  wall  faced  the  victim, 
with  a  closed  door  only.  This  door  could  not  be  opened 
in  time!  That  appeared  to  settle  it!  The  poor  creature, 
frightened  out  of  his  wits,  fell  to  the  floor,  and  then  rose 
to  one  knee,  with  hands  stretched  Heavenward.  At  last 
the  end  had  come.  The  Negro  now,  the  picture  of  which 
our  pen  cannot  describe,  stood  over  him  with  razor  up 
raised,  and  eyes  dancing  with  murder  like  huge  coals  of 
fire.  "  Don't  cut  me  with  that  razor,  Mister/'  the  victim 
whimpered.  He  pushed  the  other  back  until  he  was 
against  the  door.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Sidney 
Wyeth  was  to  see  a  man  killed.  One  moment  he  looked. 
The  sunlight  played  through  a  transom  window,  falling 
strangely  upon  the  blade  of  that  poised  razor.  He  closed 
his  eyes  to  shut  out  the  fearful  sight.  The  next  moment, 
he  opened  them  as  he  heard  a  noise — a  momentous 
instant.  It  was  the  opening  of  the  door,  against  which 
the  victim  had  been  pushed. 

A  moment  later,  the  two  went  over  the  steps  a-tumble, 
below;  but  the  razor  had  flown  in  a  direction  which  they 
had  not  gone,  and  the  tension  was  relieved. 

Soon,  the  victim  emerged  from  the  rear,  and  another 
chase  began;  but  the  razored  Negro  was  then  far  to  the 
rear.  He  eluded  his  pursuers  for  a  moment  during  the 
mix-up.  But  suddenly  in  chorus  they  cried: 


108  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"Dere  'e  goes,  cetch  'im!" 

The  crowd  had  now  grown  to  a  mob,  a  sullen  mob. 
They  cried  out  in  loud  tones  for  blood,  blue  blood;  but 
the  culprit  was  illusive.  A  street  car  was  passing,  and 
into  it  he  vaulted.  "I've  shot  a  coon,"  he  cried;  "and 
the  niggers  are  after  me!"  The  car  lunged  forward  as 
the  mob  reached  the  door,  whereupon  they  looked  into 
the  muzzle  of  a  revolver  held  in  the  hand  of  the  con 
ductor,  as  he  commanded:  "Stand  back!"  They  did, 
but  'ere  he  had  gone  far,  there  came  to  his  ears  from  the 
crowd  in  the  rear: 

"  'S  robbed  d'  bank!    "  'Es  robbed  d'  bank!" 

The  conductor  immediately  rang  to  stop.  The  victim 
rang  to  go  forward.  The  motorman  obeyed  the  former, 
and  the  car  slowed  down.  The  victim  leaped  off  before 
it  came  to  a  halt,  while  at  the  rear,  the  mob,  howling  like 
a  bunch  of  savages,  came  on  in  mad  fury. 

Then  he  tore  across  the  street  to  where  an  old  man, 
with  bent  shoulders  and  flowing  white  beard,  sat  half 
asleep  in  a  buggy.  He  rushed  to  the  side  of  this,  and 
permitted  the  old  relic  to  smell  the  muzzle,  as  he  cried: 
"Unload!"  The  old  man  did,  in  a  pile.  The  victim 
jumped  in,  and,  jerking  the  whip  from  the  socket,  brought 
the  old  horse,  half  asleep  also,  to  appreciate  the  state 
of  affairs,  by  dealing  him  a  blow  that  made  his  tail  stick 
out,  as  his  legs  speeded  up  the  street.  The  crowd  roared 
diabolically,  as  they  saw  themselves  being  left  to  the 
rear;  but  many  on  bicycles  gave  chase,  and  followed  in 
close  pursuit.  He  suddenly  drew  his  revolver,  and  let  go 
the  trigger,  which  made  a  flash,  point  blank  in  their 
midst.  That  settled  it.  One  fell  to  the  street  with  a 
sad,  sickening  cry,  an  arm  limp  at  his  side.  The  others 
gave  up,  turned  back,  and  quickly  went  the  other  way. 

And  then  he  disappeared. 

Wyeth  had  returned  to  the  scene  of  the  opening — so 
had  the  rest.  And  the  crowd,  combined  with  those  who 
had  gathered  about  the  bank  in  the  meantime,  filled 
Audubon  Avenue  the  entire  length  of  the  building,  a 
block  and  a  half  on  the  side.  All  was  uproar.  Report 
followed  report,  and  each  flashed  through  the  crowd  with 


"'CAUSE  NIGGA'S  'S  GITTIN'  SO  RICH"    109 

much  comment.  He  had,  so  the  news  ran,  been  captured 
here,  and  everywhere.  As  it  stood,  he  had  not  been 
captured  at  all.  Opinions,  expressions,  conclusions  and 
rejections  were  in  order  on  all  sides.  One  was  to  the 
effect  that  the  big  banks  uptown,  conducted  by  "whi' 
fo'kes,"  had  conspired  the  deal  on  account  of  fear, 
"'cause  nigga's  's  a-gittin  so  rich  'n  'a-posit'n  they 
money  in  the  cullud  bank,  ontell  dem  whi'  fo'kes  done 
'trigued'  and  got  dat  low  down  po'  whi'  man  t'  come  and 
tri'  t'  frustrate  us  'spectable  cullud  fo'kes."  And  again 
there  came  to  the  ears  of  Sidney  another  report,  and  this 
was  one  of  graver  concern. 

"Robbers  'roun'  a-stealin'  d'  money,  go'n  be  fus'  one 
dare  in  d'  mawnin'  t'  draw  mine  out!" 

"Gwan,  you  fool  nigga!  Yu'  ain'  got  nothin'  in  dere; 
'n'  yu'  aut  a-be  run  outta  town  fo'  talkin'  lak  dat!" 

"  Who  dat  obber  dare,  da'  whi'  man  dressed  so  'maculete 
wi'  du  soft  hat?" 

"Dat's  Judson,  d'  'porter  on  d'  Jou'nal." 

"Who  dat  udder  one  wi'  a  big  nose  'n'  dark  'plection!" 

"Ain'  you  ebber  been  'rested,  nigga,  'n'  up  a-fo'  Jedge 
Ly'l's,  'n'  seen  'im  a-hangin'  'roun'?  Dat's  Jempsy,  d' 
putective." 

"Lis'n!  lis'n!  Wha'  dat!  Dey  has  captured  'im!" 
Forthwith,  to  another  point  they  rushed,  through  a 
bunch  collected  around  the  barber,  who  was  then  telling 
and  retelling  "  'Ow  close  ah  come  t'  gittin'  'im." 

It  was  not  a  report  this  time,  but  the  ambulance  that 
was  taking  the  wounded  teller  to  his  home.  The  sight 
of  him,  with  bandaged  head  as  a  result  of  the  attempt, 
served  to  renew  the  local  race  animosity. 

"Ah  sho  's  go'n  kill  me  a  whi'  man,  so  'elp  me  Jaysus!" 
muttered  a  dinge,  as  the  carriage  passed  him  by,  while 
all  about  dark  faces  scowled  ominously. 

Darkness  was  approaching,  when  an  authentic  report 
came  at  last,  to  the  ears  of  the  crowd.  The  would-be 
robber  had  really  been  captured,  and  it  was  the  papers 
that  gave  forth  the  news. 

His  name,  so  he  said,  was  Rhynata,  a  "vaudevillain," 
who  hailed  from  Denver.  His  capture  had  been  thus: 


110  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

When  he  had  eluded  the  mob,  by  holding  up  the  old 
man  for  his  horse  and  buggy,  he  followed  that  street  for 
only  a  block,  when  he  turned  into  another.  After  the 
crowd  was  lost,  he  left  the  buggy,  and  walked  hurriedly 
up  the  street,  turned  a  corner,  and  disappeared  in  the 
basement  of  a  house. 

A  plainclpthes  man,  some  while  later,  happened  to  pass 
that  way  in  trying  to  locate  him,  and  followed  him 
therein.  When  he  got  to  the  second  story,  he  came  into 
a  room  where  a  woman  was  bathing,  with  a  damp  towel, 
the  head  of  a  man  in  bed.  He  backed  up,  begging  pardon, 
and  turned  to  leave.  As  he  was  passing  a  dresser,  in  a 
half  open  drawer,  his  eye  espied  a  revolver  which  his 
hand  forthwith  touched.  The  barrel  was  warm,  which 
told  the  rest  of  the  story. 

The  settlement  began  the  next  day  before  Judge  Loyal. 
His  court  room  was  filled  that  day,  but  the  greatest 
crowd  was  outside.  The  man  was  duly  identified  as  the 
culprit,  by  many,  including  the  Negro  with  the  razor, 
was  as  duly  bound  over  under  a  bond  that  no  one  cared 
to  go,  and  a  few  months  later  was  brought  to  trial,  con 
victed  on  two  charges,  and  subsequently  sent  to  the  chain 
gang  for  five  years. 

He  should  have  much  of  that  yet  to  serve,  but  he 
escaped — rather,  he  walked  away  a  few  months  later, 
and  has  not  been  intercepted  at  the  time  of  this  writing — 
but  this  is  not  our  story. 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

And  Then  Came  Slim 

Wintertime  had  flown,  and  over  all  the  country, 
springtime  had  blossomed.  On  one  of  those  beautiful 
days,  Slim  came  to  the  office  of  Sidney  Wyeth.  His  real 
name  was  V.  R.  Coleman,  but,  since  he  was  so  tall  and 
slender,  to  Wyeth,  "Slim"  seemed  more  appropriate, 
particularly  when  the  other  did  not  object.  This  name, 
however,  was  applied  sometime  later,  and  not  on  this 
particular  day. 

In  Dixie  there  are  many  original  characters,  and  this 
has  made  it  the  source  of  humor.  Undoubtedly,  the 
Negro  is  the  background  of  most  of  it,  and  justly1  plays 
the  part.  Conspicuous  among  these  original  characters, 
there  is  a  particular  class  of  men  who  will  work  from  the 
time  frost  falls  in  November,  until  the  birds  sing  again 
in  the  last  days  of  March.  When  the  smell  of  the  honey 
suckle,  and  the  buzz  of  the  bee  become  a  part  of  the  day, 
they  succumb  to  an  inevitable  longing  to  mingle,  and 
become  "human"  bees  themselves.  So,  by  the  time  May 
has  arrived,  and  spring  chickens  are  large  enough  to  fry, 
they  go  forth  to  the  open,  choosing  many  varied  ways — 
but  always  an  easy  one — of  living  until  the  leaves  begin 
to  fall  again. 

Most  of  these  men  preach;  for,  since  the  beginning  of 
the  present  order,  this  has  been  the  easiest  way.  No 
learning,  of  course,  is  required,  so  long  as  they  can  spell 
"ligon"  and  preach  "dry  bones."  Of  course,  if  the 
character  is  a  good  "feeler,"  with  the  magnetism,  suf 
ficient  eloquence,  and  a  severe  frown  with  it,  he  "gets 
by"  much  easier.  Conditions,  it  must  be  observed,  are 
changing,  even  in  Dixie.  And,  it  is  a  fact  that  a  Negro 
preacher  is  beginning  to  pay  for  a  meal  occasionally. 


ill 


112  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

But  there  were  other  ways  of  "gettin'  by"  as  well, 
though  not  nearly  so  prevalent  as  preaching.  It  was  in 
quest  of  such  a  way,  no  doubt,  that  Slim  came  to  the 
office  that  day.  Wyeth  had  become  acquainted  with  him 
while  canvassing  during  the  winter.  He  was,  at  that 
time,  employed  in  a  grocery  store  as  man  of  much  work, 
a  part  of  which  consisted  in  driving  a  little  black  mule 
about  the  streets,  before  a  wagon  in  which  he  delivered 
groceries. 

They  had  become  friends,  and  Slim  was,  in  the  opinion 
of  Wyeth,  an  original  and  sociable  being  also.  He  had 
informed  Wyeth  that  music  was  his  line;  singing  schools 
he  claimed  to  have  conducted  with  great  success.  So, 
during  the  summer  and  spring  months,  and  some  time 
into  the  fall,  he  carried  the  title  of  professor.  And  it 
was  as  such,  that  Wyeth  welcomed  him  that  day. 

"Hello,  Professor,"  he  greeted  him  cordially,  arising 
from  his  chair,  and  grasping  the  other's  hand,  with  much 
ostentation.  "Professor"  was  ushered  into  a  seat,  where 
he  crossed  his  long  legs  with  much  dignity,  and  gazed 
out  the  window  for  a  moment,  without  saying  other  than 
the  return  of  the  greeting. 

As  he  sat  by  the  window  at  that  time,  it  was  hard  to 
even  fancy  his  driving  a  mule  in  front  of  a  load  of  groceries. 

"Ah,  my  friend,"  he  began,  after  he  had  swept  the 
street  below  with  a  careful  gaze.  "I  am  glad  indeed  to 
see  you,  and  to  find  you  occupying  such  a  delightful 
office."  He  scanned  the  office  now,  with  an  admiring 
gaze,  and  went  on:  "You  are  sure  fixed  up  in  great 
style,  just  grand,  grand!" 

"Oh,  fair,"  Sidney  admitted  carelessly.  "I  am,  how 
ever,  glad  you  dropped  in,  for  I  have  been  thinking  about 
you  for  some  time." 

"I  am  honored,"  said  the  other,  with  an  elevation  of 
the  eyebrows. 

"Yes,"  resumed  Sidney,  with  a  serious  and  thoughtful 
expression,  "it  has  always  been  my  opinion,  that  a  man 
with  the  bearing  and  dignity  you  obviously  possess, 
could  be  much  more  in  keeping  with  society,  in  a  position 
that  would  employ  such  a  wealth  of  ability." 


AND  THEN  CAME  SLIM  118 

Slim  did  not  make  immediate  answer  to  this,  for  the 
simple  reason  that  he  was  too  flushed  with  vanity  by  the 
words,  to  do  other  than  color  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  and 
swallow. 

"When  I  see  a  man  like  you  carrying  groceries  up  the 
back  way  of  a  house,  let  me  tell  you,  Professor,"  Wyeth 
said  flatteringly,  "I  can't  help,  in  a  measure,  but  feel 
despair  for  our  race;  but  I  was  told  by  a  very  responsible 
party,  that  your  health  required  such  an  expedient." 
Slim  was  then  in  the  seventh  Heaven  of  vanity,  and 
looked  away  to  hide  the  tears  of  gratitude,  he  felt  toward 
the  man  who  had  courage  sufficiently  to  admit  what  he 
himself  felt.  He  admired  Sidney  Wyeth  on  the  spot. 

Wyeth  went  on  to  say,  "Now,  for  instance,  I  am  in 
the  book  business,  which  was  never  better.  I  have  been 
anxious  to  enlist  a  good  man's  service."  As  he  said  this, 
he  looked  in  Slim's  direction,  and  went  on:  "But  I  did 
not  wish  to  place  this  matter  before  you,  until  a  time  I 
felt  you  would  be  in  a  position  to  consider  it,  possibly, 
favorably."  He  paused  long  enough  for  his  words  to 
take  effect,  then  continued,  "So  Professor,  I  should  like 
to  have  you  consider  this  matter  with  a  view  to  taking 
it  up." 

"Well,  sir,  Mr.  Wyeth,"  his  honor  began,  "I  confess 
that  I  have  been  thinking  of  that  myself."  He  was  silent 
a  minute,  then  proceeded  again:  " My  health  is  improved 
to  such  an  extent,  that  I  have,  of  course,  emancipated 
myself  from  a  position  of  drudgery,"  and  here  he  drew 
himself  up,  with  more  ostentation  than  ever.  "I  shall 
be  glad  to  tell  you,  when  it  is  more  convenient,  and  we 
have  the  time,  of  my  career  as  a  business  man  back 
where  I  came  from.  You  can,  I  see,  appreciate  a  man 
that  is  possessed  of  ability,"  and  he  looked  down  at  him 
self  at  this  point,  before  continuing.  Directly  he  said: 
"I  shall  be  glad  to  have  you  explain  this  matter  in 
regard  to  the  book." 

"Well,"  said  Wyeth,  slowly,  "you  should  have  some 
idea  of  the  work,  since,  with  your  years  back  in  South 
Carolina,  you  were  so  successful;  but  more  so,  since  you 
have  been  over  a  territory  I  have  worked." 


114  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"You  certainly  did  fill  Brookville  with  it,  I  must  say," 
he  admitted. 

Wyeth  smiled. 

"Wish  you  hadn't  worked  that  neighborhood,  though," 
he  said  regretfully. 

"Others  are  yet  to  be  worked.  ..." 

"But  I  know  everybody  in  that  neighborhood." 

"So  do  I— now." 

Slim  laughed  a  low,  sorrowful  laugh,  and  then  was 
thoughtful.  Then  he  inquired :  "What  comission  do  you 
pay?" 

'Forty  per  cent.     Sixty  cents  the  book." 

"Do  I  have  to  pay  for  the  books  before  I  can  have 
them  to  deliver?" 

"I  can,  of  course,  trust  you,  Professor,"  Wyeth  replied; 
"but  the  last  one  I  trusted,  and  who  took  eighteen  copies 
out  for  the  purpose  of  delivery,  has  not  shown  up  since." 

"Indeed!  Did  he  send  the  books  back,  or  leave  them 
somewhere?  " 

"He  left  them  somewhere — several  where's." 

"Then  you— ah— got  them  back?" 

"Not  yet." 

"But  you  will?" 

"Not  likely.  The  people  he  left  them  with  paid  him 
$1.50  a  copy  therefor,  but  I  have  charged  that  to  the 
dust,  and  it  has  rained  since.  You  think  over  this  propo 
sition  and  come  back  tomorrow  morning,  and  we  will 
get  down  to  business.  Should  you  decide  to  take  it  up, 
I  shall  be  glad  to  have  you  accompany  me  an  afternoon, 
and  hear  me  spiel  it." 

The  following  morning,  full  of  book  selling,  Slim  was 
on  hand.  Moreover,  he  wished  to  begin  that  morning, 
but,  as  Sidney  had  made  no  arrangement  to  that  end,  he 
was  compelled  to  wait  until  the  afternoon. 

"I  used  to  sell  books  in  South  Carolina,"  he  said  later, 
as  he  was  looking  through  the  book. 

"You  have  had  some  experience  then,"  commented 
Wyeth. 

"Wait  until  I  commence.  I'll  show  you  a  thing  or 
two." 


AND  THEN  CAME  SLIM  115 

"Oh,  I  have  a  'hunch'  you'll  'clean  up/  "  said  Wyeth 
with  feigned  admiration. 

"You  sold  a  book  to  somebody  I  know  on  Fourteenth 
Street  .  .  .  .,"  he  smiled. 

"I  thought  you  said  I  sold  to  many  you  know.  I 
think  I  did,"  said  Wyeth  innocently. 

"I  know  this  one  a  little  better  than  the  rest,"  he  ad 
mitted,  now  showing  his  teeth,  despite  his  effort  to  keep 
his  upper  lip  stiff. 

"Oh — ho,  I  see  now,"  laughed  Wyeth,  good  naturedly. 
After  a  pause  he  said: 

"Who  is  she?  Come,  'fess  up.  At  what  number  does 
she  work?"  But  at  this  Slim  only  laughed,  and  left  his 
friend  curious. 

That  afternoon,  at  two  o'clock  sharp,  they  sallied 
forth.  Going  to  Dal  ton  street,  they  entered  a  cafe  con 
ducted  by  some  people  in  the  last  stage  of  hook-worm 
hustle. 

"What'll  you  genamens  have?"  asked  the  waitress, 
who  looked  so  tired  and  sleepy. 

Sidney  scanned  the  greasy  bill-of-fare,  while  Slim  in 
quired:  "What  have  you?"  As  she  drawled  out  the 
list,  Sidney's  ears  came  attentive  to  the  orders  being 
given  by  others. 

"Snout." 

"Yo's,  mistah!" 

"Pig  tail  'n'  swee'  taters." 

"'N'yo's?" 

"Stewed  haid." 

"Ah  wan'  some  magetti,"  sang  a  small  boy  on  a  stool, 
with  papers  under  his  arm. 

"Gimme  a  yeah  sanrich,"  from  one  with  a  very  loud 
mouth. 

Slim  was  very  hard  to  please,  as  it  now  appeared,  and 
was  having  some  difficulty  in  being  satisfied. 

"What  is  your  specialty  here?" 

"Ah  don'  tole  you  du'  ohdahs  already.  We  has  hog 
year,  'n'  hog  snoot,  'n'  pig  tail,  'n'  collap  greens,  'n' — " 

"Give  us  a  pair  of  feet,"  interposed  Wyeth. 

After  the  meal,  they  turned  into  a  side  street,  crossed  a 


116  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

back  yard  and  entered  a  house  from  the  rear.  Ahead,  a 
flight  of  steps  led  up  through  the  basement,  to  the 
kitchen.  Up  this  they  went,  and  rapped  on  the  kitchen 
door.  It  was  opened  by  a  woman,  presumably  the  cook. 
Wyeth  raised  his  hat,  while  Slim  did  likewise;  where 
upon  she  was  very  much  flattered.  Said  Wyeth:  "Yes, 
ma'am!  How-do-you-do.  You  will  pardon  our  inter 
rupting  you,  but  I  suppose  you  are  the  lady  employed 
herein,"  and  gazed  into  the  kitchen  before  him. 

"Yes,"  she  replied  embarrassed.    "I  work  here." 

"Very  well,  thank  you."  Then  turning,  he  revealed 
his  honor,  bending  almost  to  the  floor.  "This  is  Professor 
Coleman!"  Their  prospective  customer  was  very  profuse 
as  she  accepted  the  introduction,  and  then  was  curious 
to  know  to  whom  she  was  indebted.  Presently,  unable 
to  withstand  the  wait,  she  inquired: 

"Are  you  preachers?" 

Wyeth  looked  at  Slim  who  had  his  hat  rolled  up,  and 
was  showing  his  teeth,  then  turned  back  to  the  lady  and 
replied  that  they  were  not.  He  then,  without  further 
ado,  began  his  spiel,  putting  more  dynamite  into  it  than 
usual,  since  he  wished  to  make  an  impression  upon  Slim 
as  well. 

"I  presume  from  your  English,  madam,  that  you  are 
literarily  inclined,  in  fact,  I  feel  certain  you  are."  He 
bestowed  upon  her  a  hypnotic  smile,  which  he  had 
cultivated  for  the  purpose  of  impression,  and  then  went 
on,  with  eloquence: 

"This  is  The  Tempest,  a  tale  of  the  great  northwest,  in 
which  we  follow  the  fortunes  of  this  young  man,"  and 
he  showed  his  picture  on  the  frontispiece.  In  this  same 
picture,  people  seldom  recognized  himself  as  the  hero. 
Before  long,  he  had  her  order,  and  a  half  dozen  more, 
and  Slim  was  enthusiastic.  When  they  were  on  the 
street  for  a  time  again,  Slim  said,  with  much  admiration: 

"Man,  but  you  are  a  salesman!  The  spiel  and  look 
you  turn  on  these  cooks  and  maids  and  house  girls,  and 
everybody,  is  guaranteed  to  make  the  dead  take  notice. 
I  can  never  get  over  laughing  when  I  think  of  the  old 
lady  back  there,  the  one  who  said:  'I  am  not  decided 


AND  THEN  CAME  SLIM  117 

yet  as  to  whether  I  shall  take  it.'  Then  you  said,  and 
as  serious  as  she  was:  'Let  me  decide  for  you  in  this/  " 
and  then  he  gave  up  to  laughter  for  some  minutes. 

"Think  you  can  learn  it?"   said  Sidney. 

"I  want  you  to  let  me  take  this  house,"  said  Slim, 
halting  before  an  imposing  structure. 

"All  right,"  said  Wyeth.  "I'll  wait  for  you.  Don't 
get  struck  on  the  house  girl  and  stay  too  long. " 

Slim  disappeared.  A  moment  later,  a  noise  and  the 
barking  of  a  vicious  dog  came  to  Wyeth's  ears,  accom 
panied  immediately  by  a  scuffling.  A  moment  later, 
Slim  emerged  from  the  back  way  in  very  much  of  a 
hurry,  with  a  bull  dog  in  close  pursuit.  When  he  was 
safe  outside  once  more,  he  looked  about  him  dubiously. 
"I  don't  like  this  neighborhood!"  he  said. 

"You  mean  that  neighborhood,"  laughed  Wyeth.  "Did 
you  make  a  sale?" 

"Make  Hell!"  cried  Slim,  still  breathing  heavily  from 
his  nervousness.  "Talk  about  making  a  sale  with  a 
bull  dog  barking  at  my  heels!"  They  had,  by  then, 
reached  a  street  that  led  across  town,  and  they  turned 
into  this.  Wyeth  took  a  few  orders,  but  Slim  decided  to 
dispense  with  further  canvassing  until  the  morrow. 
Several  times,  Wyeth  tried  to  steer  him  into  a  yard,  but 
always  he  observed  that  his  eye  wandered  around  toward 
the  rear,  and  since  nearly  every  one  kept  some  kind  of  a 
dog — the  most  of  which  would  rather  play  than  anything 
else — it  was  hard  to  reconcile  Slim. 

At  last  he  managed  to  get  him  through  a  gate  that 
was  close  to  the  rear  door,  and,  while  he  explained  his 
mission  to  the  cook,  Slim  gave  the  house  girl  a  good 
talk,  but  she  smiled  on  him  and  said:  "I  purchased  one 
from  the  other  gentleman  already." 

This  served  to  relieve  him  at  least,  and  also  encouraged 
him  to  a  more  concentrated  effort  later. 

When  they  returned  to  the  office,  Slim  was  again  full 
of  the  book  business.  The  next  day  he  went  out  for  him 
self.  After  a  few  houses  had  been  made,  however,  he 
must  have  met  another  "sociable"  dog,  for,  shortly 
afterward,  Wyeth  saw  him  depart. 


118:  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

That  afternoon,  when  they  met  again  at  the  office,  he 
was  surprised  to  learn  that  Slim  had  taken  several  names, 
and  was  in  the  highest  of  spirits.  Wyeth  was  too,  but 
from  other  causes.  He  had  taken  about  eight  orders, 
when  he  came  into  a  back  yard  from  an  alley.  Through 
a  screen,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  girl  working  in  the 
kitchen.  He  approached  the  house,  and  presently  knocked 
on  the  door.  She  opened  it  with  an  inquiry.  He  looked 
up  into  her  face  from  where  he  stood  on  the  ground. 
She  looked  down  into  his,  and  blushed  as  she  looked 
away.  She  made  an  impression,  and  he  was,  for  a  moment, 
lost  in  a  maze  of  delight.  Soon  he  was  serious,  however, 
and  said  he  wished  to  speak  with  her  on  important 
business.  This  was  his  style.  He  had  observed  that 
agents,  the  minute  a  door  was  opened,  began  a  spiel 
without  getting  the  attention  of  the  prospective  customer, 
so  he  made  it  a  practice  to  get  their  attention  first,  and 
leave  them  in  doubt  until  he  did,  before  disclosing  his 
business.  If  he  failed  to  do  this,  he  usually  went  his 
way,  without  letting  them  know  what  he  was  selling. 
But,  to  get  back  to  the  girl. 

She  declared  that  she  was  very  busy  at  the  time,  but 
would  be  glad  if  he'd  come  back  shortly.  "In  about  an 
hour/'  she  advised,  as  she  watched  him  walk  toward  the 
gate.  He  went  his  way  with  a  subtle  swimming  of  the 
head. 

He  passed  the  next  hour  mechanically,  made  several 
sales,  of  which  he  was  hardly  aware,  and  at  the  end  of 
the  hour,  he  returned.  She  was  waiting  for  him.  He 
smothered  his  interest,  and  told  her  the  story  in  brief. 

"Oh,  that's  fine!"  she  exclaimed,  in  an  ecstasy  of 
delight,  when  he  had  finished.  "When  do  you  deliver?" 

"Any  time,"  he  replied;  "but  I  have  several  in  this 
neighborhood  for  the  first.  Could  you  take  yours  then?" 
As  he  finished,  he  looked  at  her  strangely.  His  thoughts 
went  back  to  a  place  and  a  person  he  had  almost  for 
gotten.  (?) 

She  looked  back  at  him,  smiled,  became  uneasy,  ap 
parently  she  did  not  know  how  to  take  him.  Then  she 
asked  softly:  "Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that?" 
And  then  he  came  out  of  it,  and  replied  candidly: 


AND  THEN  CAME  SLIM  119 

"I  don't  know/'  he  started  to  say,  "because  you 
remind  me  of  one  I  once  knew — and  loved."  The  very 
thought  of  it,  however,  now  pained  him.  However,  he 
dismissed  these  thoughts  from  his  mind,  and  was  normal 
again. 

She  appeared  as  though  she  would  like  to  say  more  on 
the  subject,  but  instead  she  added:  "Have  you  been 
selling  the  book  long?" 

"Ever  since  publication,"  he  admitted  frankly. 

The  past  lingered  with  him  for  some  time,  but  it  was 
temporarily  forgotten,  when  he  had  returned  to  the 
office,  and  noted  Slim's  success. 

"You're  there,  Professor,"  he  beamed,  while  the  other 
assumed  an  air  of  modesty. 

A  few  days  later — and  he  was  apparently  successful  in 
the  meantime — Slim  said  to  Wyeth:  "I  want  you  to  go 
with  me  tomorrow.  I've  found  a  'nest.' ' 

"A  hornet  nest?"  asked  Wyeth  humorously.  Slim 
looked  uncomfortable.  He  had  a  good  memory. 

"I'm  serious.  Out  there  around  the  colleges,  man,  are 
some  of  the  finest  people  you  ever  met,  and  rich!  They 
own  homes  that  will  open  your  eyes." 

"M-m.  Are  these  orders  from  them,  or  have  they  told 
you  they  would  'think'  it  over  and  you  could  drop  in 
when  you  were  in  the  neighborhood  again?"  Slim's  face 
fell  for  a  moment,  then  he  said,  while  Wyeth  thought  he 
detected  something. 

"These  orders  are  from  good  people  in  and  around  that 
neighborhood."  He  paused  for  a  spell,  and  resumed,  with 
a  frown:  "I  have  been  thinking  very  seriously,  that  you 
could  do  much  better  among  the  people  in  their  homes, 
and  wouldn't  need  to  go  snoopin'  around  to  the  rear. 
I  must  confess,  Mr.  Wyeth,  that  I  have  never  been  overly 
anxious  to  confine  the  most  of  my  work  to  domestics,  as 
you  seem  to  choose." 

Again  Sidney  smiled,  while  Slim  paused,  disconcertedly. 

"Now  this  list  I  have  here,  should  convince  you  that 
you  have  simply  been  over-looking  the  best  people,  for 
the  kitchens.  So,  if  you  will  go  along  with  me  tomorrow, 
I  will  convince  you  to  your  own  satisfaction." 


120  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

Wyeth  kept  out  of  going  with  Slim  in  different  ways, 
and  'ere  long,  the  day  of  Slim's  first  big  delivery  came. 

Only  about  forty  copies  of  the  book  were  on  hand  in 
the  office,  but  more  were  at  the  freight  house,  with  the 
bill-of -lading  at  the  bank,  and  a  sight  draft  attached  for 
the  cost  of  the  books.  Sidney  did  not  have  the  amount 
available  to  pay  it  on  that  day.  He  reckoned,  however, 
that  the  number  on  hand  should  have  been  sufficient, 
but  Slim  didn't  think  so.  He  was,  moreover,  insistent 
to  a  point  that  moved  Sidney  to  make  effort  to  get  the 
others  out. 

"I  think  we  have  books  sufficient  for  today's  delivery, 
Slim,"  he  argued.  "And  then  Monday,  we  will  get  those 
at  the  freight  office." 

"It  isn't  business,  it  isn't  business.  I  have  taken 
these  people's  orders  for  this  book  to  be  delivered  today. 
There  are  fifty.  I  have  promised  faithfully  to  bring  the 
book  this  day,  and  when  I  was  in  business,  I  did  a  thing 
when  I  promised.  So  I  wish  you  would  get  the  books 
you  have  at  the  freight  office  down  here  at  once,  so  that 
I  can  fill  every  order  and  have  no  disappointments." 

Wyeth  looked  distressed,  but  smiled  all  to  himself. 
If  he  had  learned  anything  about  selling  books  to  colored 
people,  and  had  forty  copies  to  fill  fifty  orders,  he  could 
figure  on  having  a  goodly  supply  left.  But  Slim  must 
have  fifty  copies,  or  a  book  for  each  order. 

The  books  he  had  at  the.  freight  office  would  cost  a 
pretty  sum  to  get,  and  he  did  not  have  the  amount  con 
venient.  He  went  to  the  bank  and  borrowed  it.  Slim 
went  with  him  to  the  freight  office  to  be  sure  there  would 
be  no  failure;  he  must  have  fifty  books. 

When  they  arrived,  Sidney  was  chagrined  to  find  he 
had  one  dollar  less  than  it  took  to  get  them.  It  was  only 
fifteen  minutes  before  the  office  would  close,  its  being 
Saturday.  Sidney  was  up  against  it.  Slim  was  in  a 
stew.  He  deluged  the  other  with,  "Why  didn't  you  get 
them  yesterday?"  or,  "You  should  have  known  this 
office  closes  at  twelve  o'clock  today."  And  in  the  end  he 
gave  up  entirely.  Wyeth  employed  his  mind  vigorously, 
hoping  to  raise  a  dollar  in  fifteen  minutes. 


AND  THEN  CAME  SLIM  121 

"There's  no  use/'  deplored  Slim  hopelessly.  "I  will 
lose  $7  or  $8  through  your  business  carelessness. "  Just 
then,  Sidney  observed  a  drayman  coming  toward  the 
freight  house.  A  thought  struck  him,  and  he  hailed  the 
drayman.  In  a  few  words,  he  explained  the  circum 
stances,  while  the  other  nodded  acquiescence,  pulled  out 
a  dollar,  and  a  half  hour  later,  the  books  were  unloaded 
at  the  office. 

Slim  breathed  a  sigh  of  intense  relief.  He  was  a  busi 
ness  man,  and  told  Wyeth  so. 

Wyeth  admitted  it.  "Glad  to  be  affiliated  with  a 
gentleman  of  your  ability,  and  you  know  it,  Professor." 

"You  will  always  find  me  right  up  to  the  point  in 
business,  Mr.  Wyeth.  That's  always  been  my  reputa 
tion,  and  if  you  don't  believe  me,  you  can  go  over  in 
South  Carolina,  and  find  out  from  the  people  there  your 
self,"  he  said,  very  serious  of  demeanor. 

"  That's  all  right,  Professor.    I'll  take  your  word  for  it." 

At  one  o'clock  P.  M.  Slim  was  ready.  He  had  a  cab 
hired  for  the  occasion,  and  with  fifty  nice,  clean  copies, 
wrapped  deftly  at  the  publishing  house  before  shipment, 
he  sallied  forth. 

Wyeth  was  nodding  in  the  office,  when,  about  ten 
o'clock  that  night,  he  heard  some  one  coming  up  the  stair. 
From  the  way  he  halted  at  intervals,  and  set  something 
down,  he  judged  he  must  be  carrying  a  load. 

He  was. 

Presently  the  person  reached  the  landing,  and,  halting 
again,  dropped  something  heavy,  then  breathed  long  and 
deeply.  A  moment  later,  he  heard  him  pick  up  what 
ever  it  was,  and  come  on  toward  his  door.  It  was  burst 
open  in  a  moment,  and  some  one  stumbled  in  behind  a 
big  package. 

It  was  Slim.  He  dropped  the  package  as  soon  as  he 
was  inside,  with  an  air  of  disgust,  and  fell,  apparently 
exhausted,  into  a  chair.  He  was  silent,  while  he  got  his 
breath.  When  this  had  become  regular,  he  got  up  and 
moved  to  the  desk,  where  he  figured  for  some  time. 
Wyeth  remained  silent,  but  quietly  expectant.  It  came 
presently. 


122  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"Liars!  Dirty  liars!  Stinking,  low  down,  dirty  lying 
niggas.  Damn  all  of  them,  damn  them!" 

Wyeth  was  still  silent.  Slim  looked  about  himself 
wearily,  and  then  did  some  more  figuring.  Presently 
Wyeth  heard  him  again. 

"Lying  nigga's,  o'nry  nigga's,  dog-gone  the  bunch!" 

Wyeth  was  impatient.  He  wanted  to  ask  very  in 
nocently  what  the  matter  was.  Suddenly  he  saw  Slim 
looking  at  him  savagely.  Wyeth  made  an  effort  to  look 
innocent,  and  not  burst  out  laughing.  After  awhile  he 
heard  Slim  again. 

"I'm  done!  I'm  through  selling  books  to  Negroes 
now!"  He  then  arose,  and  strode  back  and  forth  across 
the  room  in  a  terrible  temper. 

Wyeth  started  to  say:  "You  mean  you  are  through 
getting  orders."  But  he  waited. 

"The  first  old  nigga  I  come  up  to,  looked  up  when  he 
saw  me,  and  then  just  laffed,  'ke-ha!'  Then,  when  I 
held  the  book  toward  him,  he  said:  'Yu'  betta'  gwan 
'way  frum  heh  wi'  dat  book!'  And  then  just  laffed 
again,  like  it  was  something  so  funny.  I  got  mad  right 
then,  but  kept  my  temper  and  said:" 

"  'What's  the  matter  with  you!  Didn't  you  order  this 
book  from  me  two  weeks  ago? '  He  paused  at  this  stage, 
and  looked  at  Wyeth  again  with  a  savage  glare.  "But 
that  old  devil  just  kept  on  laffing  like  a  vaudeville  show 
was  before  him,  instead  of  me  with  the  book  he  had 
ordered,  and  which  he  told  me  to  be  sure,  sure  to  bring 
today.  My  nigga  was  rising  now;  but  just  then  I  heard 
a  little  half -naked  kid:  'Uh!  Misteh!  'po  might  's  well 
ferget  it.  'Cause  th'  pie  man  there,'  pointing  to  the  old 
sinner,  '  orders  sumpin'  from  eve'  agent  what  comes 
'long;  puvidin'  i'  do'n  cos'  nuthin'  t'  give  th'  odah.' 
And  all  the  time  that  old  coon  was  just  laffing,  'ke-ha!' ' 
He  gave  Wyeth  another  glare,  and  went  on: 

"The  next  one  I  come  onto  looked  at  the  book  as 
though  it  was  something  dangerous.  And  then  he  squints 
up  at  me — I  think  he  must  have  been  near-sighted — and 
says:  'Sah,  I  decided  since  I  give  you  that  odah,  that  I 
wa'n't  go'n'  take  th'  book.'  When  he  saw  my  eyes,  he 


AND  THEN  CAME  SLIM  123 

could  see  I  was  mad  enough  to  kill  him  on  the  spot. 
He  saw  danger  in  them  too,  because,  near-sighted  or  not, 
he  began  edging  away,  but  again  I  held  back  my  nigga 
and  says:  'What  in  Hell  you  mean  by  making  up  your 
mind  like  that!' ' 

"He  must  have  been  drinking  Sparrow  Gin  when  he 
gave  you  that  order/'  suggested  Wyeth,  with  a  twinkle 
of  the  eye. 

"What?"   inquired  Slim,  listening. 

"I'd  advise  you  to  take  along  a  little  corn  liquor  the 
next  time  you  go  to  deliver;  pour  a  little  juice  into 
them;  get  them  drunk.  They'll  take  their  books  then." 

Slim  kicked  a  piece  of  paper  on  the  floor  before  him 
viciously,  and  said:  "I'll  take  along  a  club  and  knock 
their  lying  heads  off  their  shoulders,  's  what  I'll  do." 

"Did  you  have  enough  books?"  inquired  Wyeth, 
ignoring  the  big  package  Slim  had  brought  in. 

"You  seem  possessed  with  no  sympathy,  Mr.  Wyeth," 
he  complained,  and  then  grew  thoughtful.  Presently, 
seeming  anxious  to  tell  more  of  his  experiences,  he  went 
on.  "One  woman  I  had  an  order  from,  when  I  knocked 
on  the  door,  she  opened  it  and  said:  'I'm  so  sorry,  but 
my  husband  won't  let  me  take  that  book,'  and  then  she 
handed  me  a  nickel,  saying,  'so  I'm  going  to  give  you 
this  for  your  trouble.'  I  could  not,  of  course,  be  ugly, 
as  much  as  I  felt  like  it,  but  I  had  to  say  something. 
So  I  inquired,  as  kind  as  I  could  under  the  circumstances, 
'What  am  I  to  do  with  this?'  She  looked  distressed  at 
first,  then  brightened  with  a  thought,  and  replied,  as 
though  she  were  doing  something  wonderful:  'Why,  you 
can  use  it  for  car  fare.  You  won't  have  to  walk  back. '  " 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

"Shoo  Fly" 

Wyeth  had  not  been  able,  as  yet,  to  awaken  much 
literary  interest  among  his  people  in  the  south,  but  he 
had  a  great  many  agents  working  all  over  the  north.  Of 
those  he  had  secured  in  Dixie,  he  was  deluged  with  com 
plaints  to  the  effect  that  so  many  people  failed  to  take 
the  books  they  ordered;  so,  he  began  shipping  only 
fifteen  when  an  agent  sent  in  an  order  for  thirty  books. 
This  worked  better,  and  the  office  was  not  the  recipient 
of  so  many  complaints  thereafter. 

As  for  Slim,  he  went  with  the  cook  on  Fourteenth 
Street,  ate  two  meals  there  out  of  every  three,  and  can 
vassed  whenever  he  felt  so  disposed.  He  had  some  cards 
made,  only  one  hundred.  Four  hundred  more  would 
have  cost  but  little  additional.  He  handed  them  about, 
advertising  that  he  would  conduct  a  singing  class  at  his 
residence,  beginning  any  time  any  one  wished  lessons. 
He  was  successful  in  delivering  more  books,  when  he 
returned  to  work  among  the  domestics,  but  not  so  many 
that,  at  any  time  afterwards,  was  Wyeth  put  to  such 
strenuous  efforts  to  secure  books,  in  order  that  he  might 
have  one  for  every  customer. 

When  the  colleges  had  closed  for  vacation,  Wyeth 
hired  the  matron  to  work  in  the  office,  and,  upon  finding 
her  very  interesting,  Slim  became  more  in  evidence  about 
the  office. 

Just  about  this  time,  the  auditorium  was  completed 
which  was  begun  two  years  before,  by  the  lodge  of  which 
B.  J.  Dickson  was  the  secretary.  It  was  decided  to  ask 
the  head  of  Tuscola,  the  great  Negro  educator,  to  speak 
at  the  dedication  services.  He  was  secured,  and  this  fact 
caused  thousands  to  gather  for  the  occasion.  It  gave 
Wyeth  an  opportunity  to  hear  the  noted  Negro  for  the 

124 


"SHOO  FLY"  125 

second  time  in  his  life,  the  first  being  twelve  years  before, 
in  Chicago. 

The  day  came  at  last.  It  rained  in  the  forenoon,  but 
was  calm  and  clear  in  the  afternoon.  The  night  was  fit, 
and  the  mammoth  place  was  filled  to  overflowing,  while 
thousands,  unable  to  gain  admittance,  loafed  outside, 
where  they  were  entertained  by  a  band,  that  served  to 
keep  them  quiet.  For  Dickson,  fully  acquainted  with 
his  own  race,  was  aware  that  they  would  disturb  the 
speaker,  if  some  diversion  was  not  resorted  to,  for  their 
amusement. 

The  speaker  looked  very  tired  and  worn,  and  Wyeth 
felt  a  pang  at  his  heart  when  he  saw  him.  His  years  of 
service  were  beginning  to  tell  upon  him.  He  had  returned 
recently  from  the  west,  where  he  had  gone  for  the  purpose 
of  raising  $150,000  for  his  school,  and  had,  as  he  did  in 
everything  else,  succeeded  beyond  requirements.  He 
was  not  only  an  educator,  but  a  practical  business  man 
as  well.  To  one  who  sr-t  near  him,  Sidney  Wyeth  said 
that  evening:  "And  no  one  of  these  odd  ten  millions  is 
competent,  in  the  public's  favor,  to  take  that  old  man's 
place,  when  eventually  he  will  be  called."  The  other 
sighed  as  he  made  reply:  "There  are  many,  though,  who 
feel  that  they  and  not  he  should  be  in  the  confidence  of 
the  world,  and  have  wasted  themselves  in  uselessness 
and  inactivity,  as  a  result  of  their  imagination."  The 
speaker's  eyes,  at  the  distance  Wyeth  saw  them,  seemed 
dazed,  and  his  voice  was  strained;  but  he  did  not  soon 
forget  the  words  he  spoke  to  those  black  people,  in 
dedication  of  an  instant  that  had  ^been  inspired  by  his 
work.  B.  J.  Dickson  came  in  for  a  worthy  praise,  which 
Wyeth  knew  he  justly  deserved. 

It  was  some  two  weeks  afterwards,  that  a  convention 
was  held,  which  brought  together  a  class  of  men,  who 
were  largely  leaders  of  this  race.  They  were  the  doctors, 
the  dentists,  the  pharmacists,  and  all  men  connected  with 
physical  and  surgical  dispensation;  and  they  came  from 
two  adjoining  states  also.  Sidney  Wyeth  had,  therefore, 
opportunity  to  see  his  own  people  from  a  professional 
point  of  view,  and  was  cheered  to  observe  the  most  refined 


126  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

set  of  men  of  his  own  kin,  that  he  had  ever  seen.  Dickson 
thought  so  too,  and  wrote  as  much  in  The  Independent, 
the  following  week;  but  he  wrote  of  something  else  con 
nected  with  the  same  men,  and  served  to  show  Sidney 
Wyeth  something  he  did  not  know,  could  not  have 
believed;  but  Dickson  made  it  plain  to  the  thousands  of 
readers  of  The  Independent,  of  which  Wyeth  was  a  con 
stant  reader. 

In  the  building,  conspicuously  located  on  the  best 
corner,  was  a  drug  store,  acknowledged  to  be  the  finest 
drug  store  operated  by  black  people  in  the  south.  The 
new  building  included  a  street  front  on  another  side 
street,  the  drug  store  and  many  other  trades  on  the 
ground  space,  with  a  row  of  offices  to  the  number  of 
about  twenty-five,  especially  fitted  for  physicians  and 
dentists.  All  these  encircled  the  auditorium,  and  were 
regarded  as  the  most  artistic  arrangement  in  the  building. 
Moreover,  this  was  advantageous  in  many  ways.  At  all 
events,  it  happened  to  be  convenient  for  the  men  gathered 
on  the  occasion  referred  to.  In  addition  to  being  used  as 
a  gathering  place,  this  auditorium  could  be  conveniently 
cleared  for  the  purpose  of  dancing,  and  was  employed  for 
that  purpose,  on  the  night  the  convention  closed.  And 
this  was  what  B.  J.  Dickson  wrote  in  the  following  week's 
issue  of  The  Independent: 

"COLOR  LINE  DRAWN  AT  PHYSICIAN'S  BALL 

"Last  week  there  was  held  in  Attalia,  the  annual  con 
vention  of  the  Tri-State  Medical  Association,  as  was 
stated  in  last  week's  issue  of  The  Independent.  Never 
before  has  this  city  been  graced  by  a  more  refined,  and 
obviously  intelligent  class  of  colored  men.  From  all 
over  the  state,  and  the  two  states  adjoining,  which  are 
members  of  the  league,  came  physicians,  surgeons,  den 
tists  and  pharmacists,  representing  the  highest  body  of 
men  in  the  Negro  race.  They  were  entertained  in  sump 
tuous  splendor,  by  the  same  profession  of  men  in  Attalia. 
This  was  facilitated  by  the  fact,  that  the  new  buildings 
and  the  auditorium  were  employed  for  the  occasion,  and 
the  members  were  not  compelled,  as  they  had  been  in 


"SHOO  FLY"  127 

the  past,  to  house  their  social  function  in  some  old 
deserted  hall,  in  a  deserted  part  of  the  city. 

"It  is,  therefore,  with  deep  regret,  that  we  are  called,  by 
the  bond  of  common  sense  and  race  appreciation,  to 
mention  a  narrowness  that  prevaded  this  great  occasion. 

"It  may  be  recalled,  when  the  leader  of  our  race  spoke 
at  the  dedication,  a  few  weeks  past,  that,  on  the  com 
mittee  were  numerous  doctors,  some  of  them  successful 
leaders,  and  some  who  were  not.  Yet  it  is  and  always 
has  been  the  custom  of  our  people,  to  honor  these  men 
in  the  best  way  we  can,  for  we  have  long  since  come  to 
appreciate  that  they  are  a  part,  and  an  important  part 
of  this  new  dispensation.  Surely  it  is  in  order  and  keeping 
with  the  uplift  of  black  people,  to  help  men  whose  train 
ing  has  fitted  them  for  such  an  important  place.  That, 
perhaps,  is  why  their  conduct  of  last  week  has  constrained 
us  to  make  this  mention. 

"They  drew  the  color  line.  Plainly,  and  irrevocably. 
At  the  ball,  at  the  stag  party,  and  during  the  entire 
proceedings  of  the  convention.  Not  a  black  person  save 
one — the  wife  of  one  of  the  local  physicians  who  married 
her  for  money — was  invited.  Such  an  example  shocks  us, 
so  to  speak.  It  seems  incredible,  in  view  of  the  condition 
of  our  race,  both  morally  and  mentally.  And  still, 
though  we  have  forced  our  pen  to  ignore  it,  it  has  been, 
and  is  shown,  right  along.  At  the  ball,  not  only  was  the 
color  line  drawn,  but  a  white  orchestra  gave  the  music. 
Imagine  such  a  spectacle!  In  the  bourbon  and  always 
democratic  south,  our  people  hiring  a  white  orchestra, 
at  a  fabulous  sum;  for,  since  long  before  we  were  free, 
Negroes  have  made  music  for  the  richest  white  people 
to  dance  by. 

"Surely  the  old  order  changeth! 

"Negro  doctors  live  by  the  patronage  of  their  race, 
positively;  the  white  people  would  not  hire  one  to  doctor 
a  dog.  In  the  dark  ages,  when  it  was  felt  that  a  Negro 
was  incompetent  for  anything  else  but  to  act  as  a  slave, 
some  excuse  could  be  given  for  Negroes  to  hire  white 
doctors.  But  today,  all  race  loving  people  give  their 
practice  to  their  own,  except  those  who  are  nearly  white, 


128  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

and  wish  they  were.  But  more  than  half  of  those  at  the 
ball  have  white  doctors,  and  wouldn't  hire  one  of  those 
with  whom  they  danced.  But  Negro  doctors  expect 
Negro  practice,  and  deplore  it  terribly  when  Negroes  hire 
white  physicians!  On  the  heels  of  this,  too,  they  say 
"Shoo  fly!"  to  Negro  musicians  who  are  competent  to 
play  for  the  whites,  but  not  for  Negro  doctors.  Like 
everything  else  that  relates  to  our  people — except  their 
money — our  professionals  wrinkle  their  faces,  and  con 
clude  without  trial,  that  no  Negro  orchestra  is  properly 
trained  to  play  for  their  balls;  and  Negroes  who  con 
duct  newspapers  do  not  know  enough  to  write  a  part  of 
what  they  read;  books  of  Negro  authors  are  not  read 
by  them,  because  they  don't  know  enough — in  the  minds 
of  these  hypocrites — and  so  it  goes  in  everything.  They 
could  not  have  held  their  convention  in  the  white  audi 
torium,  even  if  permitted  to,  because  that  would  have 
cost  more  than  they  were  able  to  pay. 

"Now,  if  Negro  orchestras  are  incompetent  as  musicians 
and  are,  therefore,  relegated  to  the  rear,  and  a  white 
orchestra  is  hired  to  give  music,  and  if  Negroes  as  authors 
and  editors,  do  not  know  enough  to  write  a  part  of  what 
they  should  read,  and,  moreover,  if  Negroes  who  happen 
not  to  be  the  scion  of  some  white  man,  and,  therefore, 
possessed  of  a  yellow  face,  are  not  good  enough  to  mingle 
and  associate  with  them,  then  the  Negro  doctors  are  not 
fit  to  'kill'  us.  Why  not  let  the  white  man  do  this? 
Admitting  that  the  white  orchestra  and  the  white  editor 
and  author  have  more  advantages  than  do  the  Negroes 
in  the  same  vocation,  is  it  not  credible  that  the  same 
applies  in  regard  to  the  doctors?  Is  it  not  to  be  ap 
preciated  that,  while  the  white  man,  often  and  mostly 
the  son  of  a  rich  parent,  is  taking  a  post-graduate  course 
abroad,  the  poor  Negro  boy  is  slinging  hash  in  a  cheap 
hotel — most  of  the  best  ones  hire  white  help  now — to  get 
the  wherewith  to  go  back  and  finish  school? 

"Oh,  we  have  thought  this  brave  in  our  people  these 
many  years,  and  our  very  hearts  and  souls  and  sym 
pathies  have  been  with  them  in  this  great  effort! 

"And  we  are  repaid  in  these  terms! 


"SHOO  FLY"  129 

"The  black-skinned  people  who  pay  them  their  hard- 
earned  money,  that  we  might  have  a  representative  set 
of  men  as  our  leaders,  have  been  scorned  for  their  pains! 

"They,  the  doctors,  set  up  what  they  silently  look  upon 
as  society,  "  blue- veined  people. "  How  they  must  deplore 
that  they  are  colored,  in  a  literal  sense!  "We  are  the 
best  people!"  they  cry.  The  insurance  companies, 
started  and  led  to  their  present  position  of  success  by 
black  men,  use  every  means,  subtle  and  otherwise,  to 
throw  business  to  these  men.  Likewise  do  the  lodges. 
And  with  all  that,  not  more  than  a  dozen  or  so  are  making 
a  decent  living  in  Attalia.  We  are  still  very  poor  people. 
Yet  when  society  comes  before  us,  the  black  ones  are  not 
good  enough  to  play  for.  We  must  close.  It  makes  us 
sick!" 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

"Why  Do  You  Look  At  Me  So  Strangely?" 

The  first  books  came,  and  among  the  many  o  ders  to 
be  delivered,  was  one  for  the  girl  who  had  reminded 
Wyeth  of  a  person  who  now  belonged  to  a  closed  chapter 
of  his  life.  He  carried  her  the  book. 

"My  madam  has  not  paid  me  yet,"  she  said  regret 
fully,  "but  if  you  can  bring  it  back  next  week,  I  will  be 
delighted  to  take  it." 

He  did  so,  and  she  was  as  good  as  her  word.  "I  hope 
I  shall  enjoy  it,"  she  said,  as  she  paid  him. 

"I  hope  so  too,"  said  he.  "Practically  all  I  have  sold 
to  told  me  that  they  liked  it,"  he  added.  He  looked  at 
her,  and  while  he  was  not  aware  of  it,  in  that  moment  he 
had  an  insane  desire.  The  past  and  the  one  connected 
with  it,  rose  for  one  brief  se  ond  before  him,  as  he  had 
known  it.  She  noted  the  strange  look,  and  was  em 
barrassed.  Presently  she  recovered  from  the  effect  it  had, 
and  said: 

"Why  do  you  look  at  me  so  strangely?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied,  non-committally. 

She  did  not  understand  it,  but  blushed  as  she  said: 
"You  are  indeed  a  strange  person.  ...  I  have  thought 
about  it  more  than  once,  since  you  were  here  and  took 
my  order.  Do  you  look  at  all  your  lady  customers  like 
that?"  She  looked  full  into  his  eyes  as  she  said  this, 
but  what  she  saw  there  made  her  hastily  retract. 

"I  was  only  joking.  You  are  singular — strange, 
and — I  do  not  know  what  to  think  of  you;  but  you  are 
more  than  an  ordinary  agent  for  the  book.  Fm  sure  of 
that."  He  remained  silent.  She  looked  keenly  at  the 
picture,  and  then  at  him.  A  small  mustache  and  a 
different  style  in  the  trimming  of  his  hair;  but  she  in 
quired  suddenly: 

130 


"WHY  LOOK  AT  ME  SO  STRANGELY?"    131 

"Did  you  write  this  book?  The  picture  resembles 
you."  He  looked  innocent  and  said: 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"Indeed  I  do,"  she  insisted.     'Then  you  wrote  it?" 

"Oh  no,  indeed,"  he  lied,  earnestly. 

She  appeared  dubious,  and  then  said,  thoughtfully: 
"Maybe  you  have  some  private  reasons  for  not  wishing 
to  be  identified  as  the  author,  but  I  feel  positive  that 
you  are."  She  smiled  appreciatively  for  a  moment,  as 
she  surveyed  him  carefully.  "I  think  you  must  be  smart 
and  know  a  great  deal,  to  be  able  to  write  such  a  big 
book.  I  shall  always  recall  with  pleasure,  that  I  had  the 
honor — though  he  did  not  acknowledge  the  fact — of 
meeting  a  real  author."  She  extended  her  hand,  which 
he  took,  as  she  said:  "I  am  glad  to  have  met  you;  and 
if  you  write  another  book,  please  try  to  remember  that 
I  would  like  to  have  a  copy  of  it.  Goodbye." 

Slim  was  lolling  in  the  office  when  Sidney  returned. 
Mrs.  Lautier,  the  clerk  and  ex-matron,  found  him  very 
much  to  her  humor,  as  did  Sidney,  and  he  was  appreciated 
in  the  capacity  of  mirth. 

"Well,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "I'm  doing  a  little  better 
now.  Delivered  six  copies  today,"  and  almost  took 
Wyeth's  breath  away  by  handing  him  $5.40. 

"Say,"  he  cried  suddenly,  when  they  had  settled  up. 
"  I  happened  upon  something  today  in  which  I  am  deeply 
interested,  and  have  been  very  anxious  to  tell  you."  He 
lowered  his  voice  to  a  whisper,  while  Sidney  looked 
surprised,  but  listened. 

"It's  a  grocery  stock  that  can  be  bought  at  a  bargain." 

"Well?  .  .  ." 

"A  chance  for  you  and  me  to  get  in  right.  .  .  ." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"We'll  buy  it?" 

"But  I  am  not  in  the  grocery  business.    Books!" 
But  you  are  out  to  make  money?" 

'I  don't  gather  what  you  want  or  expect  me  to  do." 

"Well,  I'll  explain."  He  seated  himself  comfortably, 
and  then  went  on  in  that  low  tone  of  voice.  "A  fellow 
is  in  partnership  with  another  who  is  up  against  it  for 


182  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

cash,  and  offers  to  sell  his  share,  which  is  a  half  interest, 
at  a  bargain."  He  paused  again  briefly,  and  then  went 
on.  "I,  as  you  know,  having  recently  quit  working  in  a 
grocery,  naturally  know  all  about  the  conducting  of  one." 

Wyeth  nodded  understandingly,  and  remained  silent 
and  patient. 

"  I  see  in  this  thing  the  chance  I  have  been  waiting  for, 
and  am  ready  to  consider  it  favorably.  Big  money  is  to 
be  made,  can  be  made  out  of  it  for  me,  and  I  can,  at  the 
same  time  and  in  the  same  enterprise,  become  a  man  of 
affairs." 

"M-m,"  breathed  his  listener,  "How  do  you  propose 
to  conduct  it?" 

"Well,"  artfully,  "first,  it  should,  of  course,  be  in 
corporated.  And  then  a  competent  manager  and  treas 
urer  are  necessary." 

"M-m.    Do  you  propose  to  increase  the  present  stock? ' 

"Not  at  once.  I  think  the  stock  as  it  stands  at  the 
present,  is  quite  sufficient  to  care  for  the  trade  which,  I 
have  observed,  is  good." 

"M-m." 

"  I  thought  as  a  favor,  I  would  tell  you  and  give  you  a 
chance.  You  could  put  in  an  equal  share  along  with 
myself,  which  would  give  you  a  fourth  interest,  and  you 
could  become  vice  president." 

"I  suppose  you  will,  of  course,  quit  selling  books, 
should  you  take  over  the  affairs  of  this — er — corpora 
tion?"  said  Wyeth,  with  well  feigned  regret. 

"Well,"  said  the  other,  meditatively;  "I  have  not 
fully  decided  as  yet.  It  depends  largely  upon  whether 
you  can  be  brought  to  see  the  great  advantage  you  would 
gain  by  coming  in." 

"But  what  little  I  represent — which  surely  isn't 
much — is  tied  up  in  the  book  business.  How  much  will 
this  thing  cost?"  Slim  winked  wisely,  held  his  head  low, 
and  whispered  it  into  his  ear. 

"Twenty-five  dollars." 

"I'll  think  it  over,"  said  Wyeth,  feigning  seriousness. 

The  next  day,  Slim  had  forgotten  all  about  the  grocery 
business,  but  tore  into  the  office  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight 


"WHY  LOOK  AT  ME  SO  STRANGELY?"    133 

and  secrecy.  He  had  discovered  something  else.  It  was 
a  soda  fountain,  rather,  it  was  some  old  fixtures.  When 
the  drug  store  below  had  been  moved  into  the  new 
building,  they  had  stored  their  old  fixtures  in  an  empty 
store  room  near.  The  same  had  been  vacant  for  ten 
years,  but  Slim  happened  by,  and  saw  a  grand  opportunity 
at  a  glance. 

He  told  this  to  Sidney,  with  much  feeling.  "It's" the 
greatest  proposition  of  a  decade!  We  can  buy  those 
fixtures  for  a  song,  rent  the  place  they  are  in  cheap, 
move  the  office  up  there,  and  conduct  a  book  store  and 
soda  fountain  in  connection."  His  eyes  opened  wide,  as 
he  revealed  the  magnitude  of  the  proposition. 

"Can't  do  it,  Slim.  It's  too  big.  Guess  I'll  have  to 
stick  to  books."  The  other ^took  on  a^disappointed 
expression. 

"It's  the  chance  of  a  life  time,"  he  said,  with  plain 
regret,  and  continued  to  look  the  part.  "I  thought  you 
were  down  here  to  make  money,  and  when  I  go  put  and 
find  something  that's  an  Eldorado,  I  cannot  enlist  you. 
You  are  making  a  serious  mistake,  and  will  regret  it 
some  day." 

That  was  all  for  that  day,  but  the  next  day  he  was 
mysterious.  He  didn't,  however,  "put"  Wyeth  next  to 
this,  but,  on  the  quiet,  he  met  others  on  the  street  below, 
where,  at  some  length,  they  discussed  a  restaurant  and 
hotel  business,  to  be  duly  incorporated,  and  an  office  and 
a  management  to  be  appointed.  Mrs.  Lautier  made 
known  to  Wyeth  the  inner  secrets  of  this  the  next  day. 

"I'm  certainly  disappointed  in  you,  Mr.  Wyeth,"  said 
Slim,  one  day  soon  after,  very  grievously. 

"How's  that,  Professor?"'  inquired  the  other,  with 
assumed  concern. 

"You  never  seem  to  consider  seriously,  the  many  good 
propositions  I  have  discovered,  and  have  offered  to  you 
for  investment." 

"Do  you  yourself?" 

"I  could  make  a  bunch  of  money  if  you  would  come 
in,"  he  repeated  artfully,  but  ignored  the  direct  question. 

The  next  day,  he  was  more  artful  than  ever.    He  was, 


134  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

indeed,  full  of  another  proposition.  He  smiled  as  he  told 
his  friend. 

"I'm  going  to  marry  that  woman  out  there/'  he  said, 
low  and  confidentially. 

"On  Fourteenth?"  the  other  echoed  cheerfully,  re 
turning  a  sincere  smile.  "That's  where  you're  a  man. 
That'll  sure  be  dandy.  When?" 

"Oh,  not  yet  a-while,  not  until  I  get  a  divorce  from 
the  last  one." 

"Oh — then.  M-m.  So  you've  been  married  already, 
rather,  you  are." 

"I  have  never  told  you  much  of  my  past  life,  except 
from  a  business  point,  have  I?"  He  smiled  naively,  and, 
taking  a  chair,  he  became  seated,  placed  his  feet  in  the 
window,  and  proceeded  to  narrate  a  part  of  his  past. 

"I've  been  married  twice,"  he  began. 

"Oh,  twice.  .  .  ." 

"Yes.  My  first  wife  died.  We  lived  on  a  farm  in 
South  Carolina,  and  were  as  happy  a  couple  as  you  ever 
knew.  I  owned  a  two-horse  farm,  and  raised  plenty  of 
cotton  and  corn  and  some  hogs,  while  my  wife  raised 
plenty  of  chickens  and  garden  truck.  We  had  two  boys, 
whom  I  kept  in  school  in  town  during  the  winter.  And 
then,  after  my  crops  were  laid  by,  my  wife  looked  after 
the  place,  while  I  went  out  and  sold  song  books  and 
pictures,  and  preached." 

"Then  you're  a  preacher,  too,"  said  Wyeth,  when  he 
paused  a  moment.  "  I  didn't  think  you  were  a  preacher," 
he  continued,  looking  him  over. 

"Well,  not  altogether.  I  preach  sometimes,  but  not 
much  since  I  married  the  last  woman." 

"How's  that?" 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  that  woman  almost  made  me 
lose  my  religion,  she  was  such  a  devil." 

Wyeth  was  silent,  but  attentive.    Slim  went  on. 

"Didn't  you  meet  my  brother?  He  was  here  not  long 
ago.  I  had  him  up  here  in  the  office.  You  might  have 
seen  him  about  the  building  here.  You  could  not  have 
mistaken  him  for  any  one  else,  if  you  had  seen  him." 

"Does  he  look  like  you?" 


"WHY  LOOK  AT  ME  SO  STRANGELY?"    135 

"Lord,  no!"  Slim  exclaimed,  with  a  laugh.  "Not  at 
all.  And  you  would  not  have  believed  it;  but  ten  years 
ago  he  was  as  spare  as  I  am.  Then  he  went  to  preaching, 
and  since  then  he  has  become  the  fattest  thing  you  ever 
saw." 

Wyeth  smiled  naively.  Coleman  proceeded  with  his 
interrupted  narrative. 

"Well,  getting  back  to  that  woman;  I  married  her 
four  months  after  my  first  wife  died,  and  took  her  to 
live  in  the  same  house.  We  got  along  less  than  three 
weeks  in  peace.  Then  things  began  to  warm  up.  She 
was  a  devil,  if  there  ever  was  one  on  top  of  the  earth, 
but  I  persisted  faithfully."  His  appearance  was  now  very 
pious.  "The  first  big  row  we  had  was  on  Sunday.  It 
was  in  the  morning,  and  I,  with  my  Bible  under  my  arm, 
was  starting  to  church.  She  didn't  want  to  go  that  day, 
and  had  tried  to  keep  me  from  going;  but  I  always  led 
the  prayer,  and  preached  during  the  pastor's  absence, 
so,  as  I  was  saying,  I  was  starting  for  church.  When 
I  passed  a  room  in  which  she  had  enclosed  herself  to 
pout,  she  suddenly  opened  it,  and  hit  me  in  the  side  with 
a  big  rock.  If  it  had  not  struck  the  Bible,  I  think  I 
would  have  been  hurt  seriously;  but  it  hit  the  book  and 
my  arm,  and  rolled  upon  the  floor. 

"Well,  after  that,  the  devil  was  to  pay.  She  kept  me 
in  Hell  and  hot  water,  and  we  got  along  like  a  cat  and 
a  dog.  Each  day,  from  sunrise  until  long  after  it  had  set, 
I  asked  Jesus  whether  I  could  hold  out  to  the  end.  I  had 
declared  to  his  Holy  Name,  that  I  had  taken  that  woman 
to  live  with  for  better  or  for  worse;  but  surely  I  was 
getting  the  worst  of  it.  And  then,  at  last,  it  came  to 
the  point  when  it  was  beyond  human  endurance.  She 
took  to  shooting  at  me  for  the  fun  of  it." 

"Good  Lord!"  exclaimed  Wyeth.  "You  don't  mean 
to  say  that  she  shot  at  you!" 

"No,"  he  replied  calmly,  "she  didn't  shoot  at  me; 
she  shot  at  me,  and  not  once,  but  any  old  time  she  felt 
like  it,  which  was  more  than  once,  by  many,  many 
times,"  he  soliloquized,  grimly. 

"Good  night!" 


136  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"Yes;  she  shot  at  me  as  though  it  were  no  more  than 
throwing  hot  water  on  a  bunch  of  rats." 

"Save  me  Jesus!" 

"Then  one  day  I  shot  at  her." 

"Hush!" 

"Yes,  I  shot  at  her  and  tried  to  hit,  but  I  am  thankful 
the  good  Lord  was  with  us  both  against  ourselves,  I 
missed.  I  think  I  was  too  much  excited." 

"Deliver  me!" 

"It  was  a  few  days  after  we  had  had  a  big  row  for 
sure,  and  she  had  declared  she  would  kill  me." 

Wyeth  looked  helpless.  Slim  smiled  grimly,  and 
went  on: 

"It  was  about  my  first  wife.  I  had  an  enlarged  picture 
of  her  that  hung  on  the  wall,  and  this  devil  had  been 
eyeing  it  with  apparent  disfavor.  That  day,  she  stood 
directly  under  it,  looking  up  at  it  with  a  double  ax  con 
cealed  in  her  skirt.  I  knew  she  had  the  ax,  and  watched 
her.  I  swore  to  myself  that  the  day  of  Pentecost  had 
come.  If  she  touched  my  dead  wife's  picture,  I  would 
kill  her  on  the  spot." 

"Be  merciful,  Coleman!" 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  in  a  terrible  voice.  "I  would 
have  done  so  too,  you  can  bet  your  last  dollar  on  that. 

"She  kept  looking  up  at  it,  and  muttering  in  a  low 
tone.  I  heard  her  say:  'I've  a  notion  to  tear  you  to 
pieces!'  I  decided  that  I  would  tell  her,  and  in  so  doing 
give  her  one  chance,  a  last  chance  to  continue  life  in 
this  world.  So  I  said:  'Woman,  woman,  if  you  touch 
that  picture,  get  ready  to  die,  for,  just  as  sure  as  I'm  a 
nigga,  I'm  going  to  put  your  lights  out!'  Those  were 
terrible  days,  terrible  days,"  he  sighed  wearily,  and  for 
the  first  time  since  Wyeth  had  known  him,  he  felt  a 
pang  of  sorrow  for  him.  He  was  serious.  Presently  he 
resumed: 

"She  went  out  without  a  word — she  was  always 
dangerous  when  she  said  nothing — and  returned  presently, 
with  a  brand  new,  great  big  pistol,  and,  without  a  word 
she  began  shooting.  She  and  I  then  had  it.  She  with 
the  gun  and  me  a-running,  while  she  pulled  the  trigger, 
and  run  me  all  over  that  farm. 


"WHY  LOOK  AT  ME  SO  STRANGELY?"    137 

"After  this,  I  armed  myself  and  got  ready.  I  took  the 
children  to  my  mother,  sold  off  the  stock  and  everything 
else  but  the  furniture.  I  asked  the  Lord  to  spare  my 
life,  and  not  let  one  of  those  bullets  from  that  gun  she 
always  carried,  push  daylight  through  me,  and  I  would 
try  to  fulfill  my  promise,  God's  will  be  done.  I  offered 
her  half  if  she  wanted  to  quit,  but  she  didn't.  No,  after 
she  had  shot  at  me  and  scared  me  out  of  my  wits,  she 
was  ready  for  me  to  take  her  in  my  arms. 

"For  awhile,  things  became  a  little  better,  but  suddenly 
she  went  off  half-cock,  and  pulled  the  trigger  of  that  big 
gun  on  me  again.  Then  she  got  her  surprise.  I  had  a 
gun  too.  She  had  a  Smith  and  Wesson,  and  I  had  a  left- 
hand  Wheeler.  'Ki-doi!  Ki-doi!'  my  old  gun  barked, 
and  the  magazine  would  whirl  around  cleverly,  auto 
matically.  She  stood  frozen  to  the  spot  for  a  minute, 
then,  taking  fright,  she  dropped  hers,  and  flew  with  me 
right  after  her,  shooting  that  old  cannon  at  every  leap. 
Across  the  country  we  went.  I  loaded  and  emptied  it  a 
half  dozen  times,  and  shot  away  twenty-five  shells.  I 
shot  at  everything  in  sight! 

"After  that,  I  finished  selling  out  and  went  to  Arkansas, 
where  I  was  getting  along  all  right,  until  I  was  fool 
enough  to  let  her  come  to  me.  Again  we  got  along  very 
well  for  a  time,  but  she  got  to  cocking  her  pistol  where 
and  when  I  could  hear  it,  so  I  set  out  again.  Just  lately 
she  came  to  Brookville,  and  went  to  raising  cain,  trying 
to  force  me  to  take  care  of  her.  So,  as  you  see,  she  made 
me  quit  there,  and  thus  you  see  me." 

For  a  long  time,  both  were  silent.  The  noise  outside 
came  to  their  ears,  clearly  and  distinctly,  while  the 
ticking  of  the  clock  seemed  louder  than  ever  before. 
Presently,  Sidney,  to  relieve  his  own  emotions,  arose 
from  his  chair  and  went  outside. 

Slim  spoke  of  marrying  the  woman  on  Fourteenth 
street,  every  day  for  the  next  week.  One  morning  he 
came  in,  his  face  beaming  all  over  with  smiles,  and 
pleasant  anticipation  was  plainly  evident. 

"Well,"  he  began,  "we  talked  it  over  last  night,  and 
she  thinks  it  will  be  all  right.  So  I  want  you  to  write  a 


138  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

letter  to  my  brother  who  owes  me  some  money,  and  tell 
him  I  must  have  it,  since  I  am  engaged  to  be  married, 
and  must  have  it  to  use  in  paying  for  my  divorce." 

Wyeth  did  so. 

"That's  fine,"  he  cried  gratefully,  when  it  was  handed 
to  him.  "You  certainly  can  say  a  whole  lot  in  a  few 
words." 

"When  I  get  married  to  this  woman,  I  think  I  will 
have  a  mate  like  my  first  one,"  said  Coleman.  Wyeth 
tendered  his  sympathy. 

"Well,"  he  said,  as  one  put  to  a  task  he  would  like  to 
avoid,  "I  must  get  around,  and  see  a  lawyer  about  a 
divorce."  He  was  thoughtful  for  a  moment,  and  then 
resumed:  "Wonder  what  they  charge  for  divorces  in 
this  town?" 

"Depends  upon  the  attorney  and  the  case,"  said 
Wyeth.  "I  think  twenty-five  dollars  is  the  usual  fee,  or 
amount  of  cost."  Slim  hesitated  thoughtfully,  and  then 
said: 

"I'll  go  down  here  and  see  this  nigga  lawyer.  He 
ought  to  be  willing  to  get  one  cheaper  than  a  white 
lawyer.  Don't  you  think  so?" 

"Possibly." 

He  went  out.  About  a  half  hour  later  he  returned, 
looking  downcast  and  sullen.  He  was  silent  for  some 
minutes,  and  then  said,  as  if  addressing  himself:  "That 
nigga's  crazy." 

"Who's  crazy?"   Sidney  inquired,  looking  up. 

"That  nigga  lawyer." 

"How  do  you  figure  that  out?" 

"I  went  in  there,  and  spoke  to  him  in  regard  to  the 
divorce,  and  what  do  you  think  he  wants  for  getting 
me  one?" 

"I  haven't  the  faintest  idea." 

"Fifty  dollars!  What  do  you  think  of  that  for  high 
way  robbery?" 

"Perhaps  your  case  is  a  bit  more  complicated  than 
the  average,  and,  therefore,  justifies  a  larger  fee,"  Wyeth 
suggested. 


"WHY  LOOK  AT  ME  SO  STRANGELY? "    139 

"Aw,  that  what  he  said,  too,  but  he's  a  blood  sucker. 
He  can't  gouge  me." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Wyeth  in  an  off-hand  manner,  "you 
won't  quibble  on  a  matter  of  twenty-five  dollars  ad 
ditional,  when  you  are  getting  a  good  wife.  Consider 
that  as  a  treasure." 

"Well,  I  don't  care.  If  she's  willing  to  pay  half,  I'll 
give  the  sucker  fifty."  Wyeth  bestowed  a  terrible  look 
upon  him,  whereupon  Slim  withered: 

"Well,  she'd  be  getting  as  much  as  I.  So  what's  the 
difference?"  he  tried  to  argue.  Wyeth  continued  to 
glare  at  him. 

"The  idea!"  he  declared  presently,  with  undisguised 
contempt.  "To  wish  a  woman  to  pay  for  your  release 
from  another!  I'm  too  shocked  to  say  how  ashamed  I 
am  of  you!" 

Slim  laughed  sheepishly. 

"Twenty-five  dollars  for  a  pair  of  legs  like  you!  If  I 
were  a  woman,  I  wouldn't  give  twenty-five  cents  for  you 
as  you  sit  there  now,"  Wyeth  added,  with  subdued  mirth. 

The  next  day,  his  atmosphere  had  changed  perceptibly. 
He  was  in  an  ugly  humor.  Presently  he  gave  words  to 
its  cause. 

"That  nigga  woman's  fooling  me,  and  I  know  it." 

"What's  the  stew  today?" 

"She's  got  another  nigga  a-hangin'  around  her.  I've 
been  suspicioning  it  for  some  time." 

"You're  the  limit." 

"I  gave  her  a  ballin'  out  last  night  about  it  too." 

Mrs.  Lautier  came  in  at  this  moment,  and  that  was  the 
end  of  it  for  awhile. 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

"I'tt  Never  be  Anything  But  a  Vagabond" 

Sidney  Wyeth  had  about  filled  Attalia  with  The 
Tempest  by  this  time,  and  had  anticipated  going  to 
another  city  almost  as  large,  about  one  hundred  seventy 
miles  west.  He  made  known  the  fact  to  Slim,  and  sug 
gested  that  he  might  leave  him  in  charge  of  the  office,  if 
he  did  so.  As  a  precaution,  or  rather,  to  get  some  idea 
of  his  ability  to  dictate  letters,  he  had  him  compose  a 
few.  When  the  typist  handed  them  to  him  to  be  read, 
and  he  had  done  so,  he  decided  to  allow  him  to  continue 
his  canvass,  and  to  hire  some  one  more  proficient. 

"Say,"  he  cried  the  next  day.  "I've  been  thinking  it 
over,  and  maybe  I'll  be  going  along  with  you." 

"That  so?  Well,  I  do  not  see  any  reason  in  particular 
why  you  should  not  go." 

"There's  only  one  reason,"  he  said  thoughtfully. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Mrs.  King." 

"Oh!  yes;  that's  so.  When's  the  wedding  going  to 
be?" 

He  glared  at  Wyeth  a  second,  and  then  exclaimed 
doggedly:  "I'm  not  going  to  marry.  I  wouldn't  marry 
the  best  woman  in  the  world." 

"From  what  you  have  told  me,  it  seems  that  you  did 
marry  the  worst,"  laughed  the  other. 

"I'll  stay  single  henceforth,  and  be  safe,"  he  growled, 
and  busied  himself  through  some  papers. 

"Stay  single,  eh!    And  let  the  nice  lady  go  without  a 


sition.' 

140 


"I'LL  NEVER  BE  ANYTHING"  141 

"Oh,  I  see.  What  is  it  this  time?  Going  to  buy  the 
First  National  Bank  or  the  Southern  Railway?" 

"Oh,  you  needn't  try  to  kid  me.  Besides  I  have  not 
asked  you  to  come  in,  though  if  you  did,  you  could  pick 
up  some  big,  quick  money,  if  you  were  of  a  mind  to  be 


serious." 

n 


Oh,  well,  if  it  doesn't  take  more  than  a  million,  I 
might  be  brought  to  consider  it,"  Wyeth  smiled,  with 
assumed  seriousness. 

"I  can  see  you  laffing  in  your  sleeve,  so  I  don't  tell 
you  anything,  you  see!"  He  ended  it  angrily,  and  left 
the  office. 

It  was  too  good  though  to  keep  to  himself,  so  he  told 
Mrs.  Lautier,  who  in  turn  told  it  to  Wyeth. 

"Mr.  Coleman  had  me  write  to  Ames  today,  in  regard 
to  some  song  books,  which  he  says  he  used  to  sell  lots  of," 
she  said,  when  it  was  convenient. 

Wyeth  grunted. 

"  He  is  very  much  provoked  at  the  way  you  treat  him. 
He  says,  if  you  would  go  in  with  him,  you  and  he  could 
both  make  lots  of  money;  but  that  you  only  laugh  in 
your  sleeve  at  everything  he  proposes,"  she  went  on, 
replete  with  gossip. 

"He  proposes  many  things,"  said  Wyeth. 

She  giggled. 

"He's  going  out  to  Liberty  Street  Baptist  Church  to 
sing  and  sell  them  Sunday,  providing  he  gets  them  in 
time."  She  typed  a  few  letters,  and  then  said: 

"He  says  he  would  like  to  go  to  Effingham  with  you 
and  sell  books,  but  that  you  want  too  much  for  it.  That 
the  book  is  too  high,  and  you  want  to  make  too  much. 
He  says  the  book  ought  to  sell  for  a  dollar,  and  he  should 
be  paid  seventy-five  cents  for  selling  it." 

"He  wouldn't  make  a  living  selling  it  then,"  retorted 
Wyeth,  somewhat  impatiently.  Then  he  thought  of  Mrs. 
King,  who  fed  him  most  of  the  time. 

The  following  Monday,  Wyeth  thought  he  had  fallen 
heir  to  a  fortune.  He  passed  him  in  the  hallway,  with 
head  high,  and  as  serious  as  zero. 

Mrs.  Lautier  imparted  the  reason  for  it,  when  Sidney 
had  taken  out  the  letters. 


142  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"Mr.  Coleman  had  a  great  day  yesterday,  so  he  in 
formed  me,"  she  smiled.  "He  said  you  should  have 
been  out  to  Liberty  Street  Baptist  Church,  and  heard 
him  sing  and  sell  song  books  afterwards.  He  said  you 
were  not  a  Christian,  however,  which  made  it  bad." 

"How  many  song  books  did  he  sell,  and  what  did  he 
receive  a  copy  for  them?" 

"I  think  six,  and  he  received  fifteen  cents  apiece," 
she  replied.  He  entered  at  this  moment,  his  face  wreathed 
in  triumphant  smiles. 

"Well,  my  doubting  friend,  if  you  would  have  taken 
the  trouble  to  come  out  to  Liberty  Street  Baptist  Church 
yesterday,  I  think  you  would  have  been  convinced  that 
I  am  something  of  a  salesman  after  all." 

"I've  just  been  told  that  you  'mopped'  up,"  said 
Wyeth,  heartily.  Slim  swelled  perceptibly.  He  seated 
himself,  crossed  his  legs,  and  resumed: 

"When  I  used  to  live  in  South  Carolina,  I  was  con 
sidered  one  of  the  best  salesman  in  the  country." 

"You  must  have  been  a  great  man  in  South  Carolina," 
said  Wyeth.  Slim  observed  him  a  moment  sharply. 
Presently  he  went  on: 

"I  would  go  to  the  camp  meetings  and  festivals,  sing 
a  few  songs,  get  the  people  warmed  up  with  a  good 
sermon,  and  then  sell  hundreds  of  song  books  in  the  end." 

"Wonderful!"  from  Sidney. 

"I  am  going  to  the  HNRTYU  convention  at  Timber- 
dale  Thursday,  and  I  thought  you'd  like  to  go  along," 
he  said,  artfully. 

"  Couldn't  very  well  do  it,  unless  you  got  them  to  hold 
the  convention  over  until  next  week." 

"You  will  not  take  me  seriously,  regardless  of  my 
success,"  he  complained.  "Now  yesterday  I  sold  a  pile 
of  song  books,  and  today  I  am  sending  the  man  his  share 
of  the  money.  I  could  do  you  some  good  with  the  book 
you  are  general  agent  for,  if  you  would  increase  my 
commission  to  seventy-five  cents  a  copy,  and  lower  the 
price  to  a  dollar." 

"If  you  wrote  the  publishers,  they  might  give  you  the 
books  free  of  charge,  providing  you  agreed  to  pay  the 


'TLL  NEVER  BE  ANYTHING"  143 

freight  on  arrival,  and  not  let  the  railroad  company  come 
back  on  them  later  for  it,"  soliloquized  Sidney. 

He  went  to  Timberdale  the  next  day,  and  the  office 
saw  no  more  of  him  for  a  week. 

"When  will  Mr.  Coleman  return?"  Mrs.  Lautier  would 
inquire  every  day.  "I  certainly  do  miss  him." 

"He's  our  mascot,  our  jest.  I  miss  him  also,"  said 
Sidney,  and  they  both  spoke  of  him  at  some  length. 

Mrs.  Lautier  was  also  a  sociable  person  about  the 
office,  Sidney  was  coming  to  appreciate  more  each  day. 
She  was  from  New  Orleans,  and  a  creole.  She  had  per 
sonality,  and  a  way  that  won  all  who  were  near  her. 
She  was  slender  and  very  dark,  and,  although  only 
thirty-nine,  was  almost  white-haired,  which  contrasted 
beautifully  with  her  dark  skin.  Her  eyes  were  small  and 
bead-like,  while  she  was  affectionate  by  nature.  Her 
make-up  was  in  keeping  with  the  position  she  held  as 
matron  at  one  of  the  local  Negro  colleges.  When  she 
spoke,  her  voice  struck  the  ear  musically.  She  was  a 
widow. 

"Why  have  you  never  remarried,  Mrs.  Lautier?" 
Wyeth  ventured,  one  day.  She  colored  unseen  for  a 
moment,  before  she  answered: 

"Perhaps  there's  a  reason." 

"What  reason?  You  are  charming — very  charming, 
I  think,"  said  he  earnestly,  although  he  smiled. 

She  hid  her  face.  For  a  woman  of  her  age,  she  was 
most  extraordinary.  "I  have  been  told  that  creole 
people  have  a  most  frightful  temper,"  pursued  Wyeth, 
enjoying  her  manner.  "Is  that  quite  true?" 

"Yes,"  she  admitted,  surveying  him  now. 

"And  do  you  happen  to  be  endowed  with  such  an 
asset,  also?" 

"I  wouldn't  be  a  creole  if  I  were  not,"  she  advised, 
still  smiling. 

"That's  too  bad,"  said  he,  a  trifle  sadly.  "You  seem 
too  kind  and  sweet  of  manner,  to  be  liable  to  those 
angry,  wild  fits  they  tell  me  they  have." 

"Perhaps  you  will  see  New  Orleans  while  you  are  in 
the  south,  and  the  Creoles;  and  then,  you  can  be  better 
prepared  to  understand  them  in  the  future,"  she  said. 


144  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"Perhaps  I  will,"  he  said,  after  some  thinking.  "Yes, 
perhaps  I  will.  I  had  not  thought  of  it  before." 

"Mr.  Coleman  will  be  back  tomorrow/'  cried  Mrs. 
Lautier,  entering  the  office  a  day  or  so  later.  "  I  received 
a  postal  from  him  announcing  the  fact,  so  we  will  not  be 
so  lonesome  now." 

"I  am  anxious  to  see  what  he  did  in  Timber  dale.  I 
guess  he  succeeded  in  turning  it  upside  down,  and  cover 
ing  the  whole  town  with  song  books." 

The  next  morning,  early,  he  was  back.  He  entered  the 
office  and  sat  around  in  silence,  seeming  to  be  in  an 
introspective  mood.  Wyeth  waited  for  what  he  knew 
would  eventually  come.  It  did  not  as  early  as  it  usually 
did,  in  fact,  he  sighed  wearily  and  looked  so  peculiar, 
until  Wyeth,  to  break  the  impatience  he  was  laboring 
under,  presently  turned  his  gaze  upon  him,  and  said: 
"Well,  I  see  you  are  back.  .  .  ."  The  other  sat  up  and 
looked  about  him  suddenly,  as  though  awakened  from  a 
trance. 

"I  suppose  you  have  more  money  now  than  you  can 
conveniently  use  for  a  while,"  Wyeth  tested.  "Made  a 
bunch  in  Timberdale?" 

"Like  Hell!"  spat  the  other  grumblingly.  "Lucky  to 
be  back  here  alive." 

"M-m!  What  did  you  run  up  against?  A  freight 
train,  or  the  madam?" 

"I  left  the  day  she  arrived,"  he  said  in  a  heavy  tone, 
then  added,  after  a  pause:  "They've  been  lynching  and 
driving  nigga's  out  of  that  town  this  week,  so  the  con 
vention  was  a  fizzle/' 

"I  suppose  you  sold  out  before  they  got  after  you? 
How  many  song  books  did  you  sell?" 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  the  white  people  was  raising  Hell, 
and  a-killing  and  burning  Negroes  like  barbecue  out 
there!"  he  exclaimed  impatiently.  "I  never  sold  any 
song  books,  but  I  sold  one  copy  of  The  Tempest." 

"How  many  song  books  of  the  amount  you  received 
have  you  still  on  hand?" 

"All  but  six." 


"I'LL  NEVER  BE  ANYTHING"  145 

"I  thought  you  had  sold  them  all  but  a  dozen  when 
you  left  for  Timberdale." 

"Aw,  that  old  nigga  that  I  left  them  with,  and  who 
claimed  he  could  sell  them  at  his  church  and  more, 
slipped  them  back  into  my  room  while  I  was  away.  He 
didn't  sell  any." 

"You  don't  seem  to  be  getting  back  into  your  old- 
time  selling  form  very  rapidly,"  suggested  Wyeth. 
Ignoring  him,  Slim  said  suddenly: 

"When  you  all  going  to  Effin'ham?" 

"Next  week." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I'll  get  to  go  with  you  or  not. 
Mrs.  King  thinks  I'd  better  stay  here  this  summer. 
What  do  you  think  about  it?" 

"I  agree  with  her." 

Just  then  Mrs.  Lautier  came  in,  and,  greeting  Coleman 
very  cordially,  Wyeth  left  them  and  went  out  on  business. 

He  happened  to  have  a  delivery  on  Fourteenth  street, 
and  when  he  had  filled  it,  he  stood  talking  with  the  girl 
a  moment.  "Are  you  acquainted  with  Mr.  V.  R.  Cole 
man?"  she  inquired. 

"Sure.  He  is  a  "sort"  of  agent  for  this  book,"  Sidney 
replied. 

"I  thought  so,"  said  she;  "and  I  was  wondering  what 
kind  of  an  agent  he  must  make,  when  he  spends  so  much 
time  in  this  neighborhood.  He  goes  with  a  certain  party 
next  door,  and  he  was  there  all  last  week.  I  think  he 
scarcely  went  outside." 

"Good  morning,"  said  Sidney. 

"Goodbye,"  said  she.     "I  hope  I'll  enjoy  the  book." 

The  week  arrived  in  which  Wyeth  was  to  depart,  and 
preparations  were  made  to  that  end.  He  decided  to 
leave  the  office  in  charge  of  Mrs.  Lautier.  Slim  came  in 
the  day  before  he  was  to  leave,  looking  frightened  and 
terribly  upset.  Always  given  to  joking  with  him,  Wyeth 
hardly  knew  how  to  accept  him,  as  he  apparently  was 
that  day.  He  was  trembling  in  every  limb  as  he  cried: 

"That  woman!  She's  after  me!  Great  God!  I  wish 
she  would  leave  me  alone,  I  wish  she  would  leave  me 
alone!  She's  followed  me  all  over  the  country.  She's 
10 


146  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

like  a  ghost  on  my  trail!  And  now  she  is  at  this  moment 
down  in  the  street  looking  for  me  again!"  Wyeth's 
sympathy  went  out  to  him,  and  he  cried : 

"Quiet  yourself!  You'll  surely  go  to  pieces  trembling 
like  that.  After  all,  why  should  you  become  so  excited? 
You  say  you  have  advised  her  that  you  are  not  going 
to  live  with  her  again." 

"Aw,  but  you  don't  know;  you  don't  understand. 
She's  got  it  on  me,  on  me  so  strong  until  I  dasn't  make  a 
crooked  move,  or  resort  to  the  law.  The  only  chance  I 
have  is  to  keep  out  of  her  sight."  He  paused  a  spell 
now,  and  his  appearance  was  that  of  a  man  under  sentence 
of  death.  Then  he  said:  "She  has  vowed  to  kill  me,  and 
I  know  if  she  gets  a  chance  she  will!" 

"I  will  go  with  you  fellows  to  Effin'ham,"  he  said  more 
calmly.  "I've  got  to  get  away  from  where  she  can  see 
me,  if  I  hope  to  live.  Every  moment  I  stay  where  I  know 
her  to  be  near,  will  be  moments  of  fear.  I  don't  want  to 
kill  her,  even  in  self-defense.  God,  no!  I  don't  want 
murder  on  my  hands!"  He  paced  the  floor  at  some 
length,  pausing  at  intervals  to  peep  into  the  street,  in 
evident  fright. 

"She  was  out  to  Mrs.  King's,  night  before  last.  Mrs. 
King  was  not  in,  so  she  walked  up  to  the  front  door  of 
the  white  people,  and  rang  the  bell.  When  the  door  was 
opened  by  the  man  of  the  house,  the  expression  he  wore 
got  her  goat.  She  made  some  excuse  to  the  effect  that  it 
was  the  wrong  house,  and  went  her  way.  Then,  yester 
day,  or  last  night  rather,  she  came  back.  We  were  eating 
supper,  and  it  happened  that  my  seat  was  so  I  could  look 
out  the  window,  and  up  the  alley.  I  saw  her  slipping  up 
this  alley,  near  the  side  of  the  board  fence,  with  a  big 
gun  and  it  cocked.  I  rushed  out  the  front  way  and 
avoided  her;  but  she  is  bent  upon  forcing  me  either  to 
live  with  her  and  submit  to  her  tyranny,  or  she'll  kill 
me,  and  prevent  me  from  living  or  being  friendly  with 
any  other." 

"You  seem  certainly  up  against  a  bad  proposition, 
V.  R.,"  said  Wyeth,  helplessly. 

"If  it  wasn't  for  a  certain  little  deal  back  in  South 


"I'LL  NEVER  BE  ANYTHING"  147 

Carolina,  I  wouldn't  be  so  afraid;  but,  owing  to  that, 
I  dare  not  do  anything  but  keep  out  of  her  way,"  he 
trembled  on,  woefully.  "I'm  going  to  try  and  slip  out 
of  town  unbeknown  to  her,  and  go  along  with  you  fellows 
to  Effin'ham.  I'll  be  safe  there  for  a  while;  but  as  soon 
as  she  learns  I  am  there,  she'll  take  up  the  trail  and  I'll 
have  to  'beat'  it  elsewhere." 

"Gee!  It  must  be  dreadful  to  live  in  the  fear  that 
somebody  is  thirsting  for  your  blood,"  said  Wyeth,  shud 
dering. 

"I'll  never  be  anything  but  a  vagabond;  a  rover, 
drifting  over  the  face  of  the  earth  until  death  comes,"  he 
cried  despairingly. 

He  was  calmed  presently,  with  the  prospect  of  going 
to  Effingham.  Wyeth  went  uptown,  attending  to  con 
siderable  business  in  connection  with  the  office,  prepara 
tory  to  leaving.  When  this  was  completed,  he  went  to  a 
movie,  and  returned  to  the  office  about  six  o'clock.  He 
went  to  another  show  that  evening,  and  after  that  had 
closed,  strolled  about  the  town  until  ten-thirty.  There 
appeared  to  be  a  gathering  of  women  for  some  occasion 
at  the  auditorium,  which  was  breaking  up  when  he 
returned.  Mrs.  King  and  Coleman  were  leaving  the 
building  when  Wyeth  came  up.  They  started  up  the 
street  with  the  crowd.  As  they  reached  the  corner,  there 
was  a  sudden  commotion.  Wyeth  ran  up,  and  was  just 
in  time  to  see  a  woman  dash  after  Coleman  from  around 
the  corner.  He  saw  her  before  she  got  near  him,  and, 
jerking  free  of  his  escort,  he  tore  into  the  street.  She 
was  a  dark  woman  with  coarse  black  hair,  and  of  an 
Indian  appearance.  With  a  cry  she  flew  after  him,  as 
she  cried  in  a  diabolical  voice: 

"At  last,  Vance  Coleman,  I  have  found  you,  and  in 
another's  company.  I  am  forced  to  stand  aside,  although 
your  wife!"  Down  the  street  his  steps  could  be  heard, 
as  he  tore  along  in  mad  haste.  She  stopped  when  she 
saw  that  she  could  not  catch  him,  and,  drawing  from 
some  invisible  direction,  a  gun,  she  levelled  it,  with 
deliberate  aim,  at  the  flying  figure.  The  crowd  stood 
frozen  creatures. 


148  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

And  then  suddenly,  a  terrible  cry  rent  the  still  night 
air,  just  as  the  gun  went  off;  but  the  cry  had  discon 
certed  her  aim,  and,  with  a  cry  she  turned  toward  the 
crowd,  but  Wyeth  had  the  arm  of  the  hand  that  held 
the  revolver,  which  he  twisted  and  made  the  weapen  fall 
to  the  ground.  She  was  led  away  presently  by  an  officer, 
while  still,  far  down  a  street,  the  sound  of  hurriedly 
retreating  footsteps  came  to  Wyeth's  ears.  He  listened 
until  they  died  away  in  the  night.  Wyeth  turned,  and 
disappeared  in  the  direction  of  his  room. 

He  never  saw  Slim  again. 

END  OF  BOOK  ONE 


BOOK  II. 

CHAPTER  ONE 
Effingham 

"I'll  take  that  change  now,"  whispered  the  porter, 
nudging  Wyeth,  as  he  lay  trying  to  sleep,  as  the  train 
roared  westward  toward  Effingham,  the  iron  city,  and 
greatest  industrial  southern  center. 

Raising  up,  he  reached  in  his  pocket  while  yet  half 
asleep,  and  handed  the  porter  two  dollars.  "I  paid  fifty 
cents  for  the  ticket  to  Spruceville,  as  you  know,  and  the 
charge  was  to  be  two  fifty?"  The  other  nodded,  and 
pocketing  the  money,  he  melted  away  noiselessly. 

A  few  hours  later,  Wyeth  raised  the  shade  and  peered 
out.  The  train  was  flying  through  a  valley,  that  spread 
away  from  either  side  of  the  single  track,  smooth  and 
unobstructed,  except  for  comfortable  farm  homes,  set 
back  from  the  roads.  He  looked  back  in  th6  seat  behind 
him,  observed  young  Hatfield,  whom  he  was  bringing 
with  him,  dozing  peacefully.  Then  he  looked  toward  the 
front  of  the  car  for  the  first  time,  and  observed  another 
with  whom  he  had  become  acquainted  in  Attalia.  He 
had  never  learned  his  name,  in  fact,  he  had  never  inquired 
it;  but,  since  the  other  possessed  such  long  legs,  and  was 
tall  and  good-natured  into  the  bargain,  he  had  called  him 
Legs,  which  had  brought  no  objection  on  the  part  of  the 
other.  And  it  is  by  that  name  we  shall  follow  him  in 
this  story. 

"Hello,  there!"  he  greeted  cordially,  when  their  eyes 
met.  "And  where  did  you  get  on  and  call  yourself 
going?" 

"Hello,  Books!"  the  other  returned,  as  cordially. 
He  rose  from  his  seat,  shook  himself  as  if  to  start  the 
blood,  jumped  about  for  a  moment,  rubbed  his  face,  and 

149 


150  THE  FORGED1NOTE 

then  came  back  to  where  Wyeth  was  and  sat  down. 
"Say,"  he  cried,  "a  little  liquah'd  go  good  right  now, 
wouldn't  it?  I  had  some,  but  like  a  pig  I  emptied  the 
bottle  last  night.  Oh,  yes,"  he  cried  suddenly,  "I'm 
going  to  Chicago.  Where  are  you  going?" 

"To  Effingham;  but  I  wish  I  were  on  the  way  for  old 
Chi'  along  with  you,"  said  Wyeth.  The  other  smiled 
blandly,  stretched  his  long  legs  in  the  isle,  then  got  up, 
went  to  the  end  of  the  car  and  looked  around  for  a  cup 
out  of  which  to  drink;  and,  of  course,  not  finding  any, 
he  lifted  the  lid  of  the  cooler,  turned  it  over,  and  finding 
it  had  a  disk,  drew  it  full  and  drank  from  it.  Replacing 
it,  he  came  back  and  reseated  himself.  Since  we  shall 
become  quite  familiar  with  him,  and  very  shortly,  a 
description  is  quite  necessary. 

He  was  tall,  over  six  feet,  and  a  mulatto.  His  shoulders 
were  broad,  while  his  chest  was  thin  and  flat.  His  head 
was  small,  and  straight  up  from  his  back,  while  he  pos 
sessed  a  pair  of  small  ears  that  fitted  closely  and  oddly 
against  his  head — so  oddly  that,  when  one  observed  him 
at  a  glance,  he  reminded  one  of  an  elf.  He  appeared  to 
be  smiling  always,  although  there  was  no  great  depth  in 
the  same.  His  eyes  were  small,  and  danced  about  play 
fully  in  his  head,  while  his  hips  were  arched  and  broad, 
between  which  was  a  full  stomach  which  made  him 
resemble  a  pickaninny. 

"You  see,  it's  like  this,"  he  began  confidentially.  He 
lowered  his  voice  almost  to  a  whisper,  and  held  his  mouth 
close  to  Wyeth's  ear.  "The  reason  you  did  not  see  me 
when  we  left  Attalia  last  night,  was  because  I  had  the 
porter  lock  me  in  the  lavatory.  I  didn't  come  through 
the  gate  at  the  station,  but  went  out  to  the  yards  where 
he  concealed  me.  When  the  train  was  out  of  the  town, 
I  came  out;  but  you  were  reading  and  didn't  look  up, 
when  I  came  out  and  took  that  seat." 

Wyeth  observed  him  now  wonderingly.  He  could  not 
understand  this  unconventional  manner  of  boarding  a 
passenger  train.  He  was  not,  however,  left  long  in  doubt. 
In  fact,  before  he  could  give  words  to  the  question  his 
eyes  asked,  the  other  enlightened  him: 


EFFINGHAM  151 

"Fs  havin'  a  little  game  Sunday  night,  and  the  bulls 
run  in  on  me."  It  was  now  all  clear  to  Wyeth.  He 
recalled  the  other's  occupation.  He  had  become  ac 
quainted  with  him  through  "Spoon,"  and  recalled  that 
he  kept  a  rooming  house  for  questionable  purposes.  In 
addition  to  this,  he  sold  liquor,  and  ran  a  game  on  Satur 
day  nights  and  Sundays — or  any  time  a  crowd  gathered 
with  enough  money  to  start. 

"M-m.     Did  they  arrest  you?" 

"No;  that  is  what  Fs  goin'  t'  tell.  I  got  away;  but 
they  got  the  rest  of  the  bunch,  every  damn  last  one  of 
them,  the  fools!  You  see,"  he  explained,  warming  to 
the  narrative,  "it  was  not  altogether  my  fault.  It  was 
like  this:  I  had  a  nigga  watching,  that  is,  I  had  him 

hired  to  watch,  but  the  d n  fool  was  a  whiskey  head, 

and  had  t'  have  a  drink  eve'  ten  minutes,  claiming,  of 
course,  that  it  was  necessary  that  he  have  plenty  of 
booze  t'  keep  himself  awake." 

Wyeth  laughed  quietly. 

"Well,  I  was  'head  a  the  game  and  winning  right 
along,  and  didn't  give  a  damn;  so  I  fed  him  all  he  could 
pour  down.  The  result  of  this  was  that  he  got  good  and 
full  by  and  by,  went  off  t'  sleep,  and  the  bulls  walked 
right  in  on  us  without  a  word  of  warning. 

"We  were  shooting  craps  on  the  bed,  and  the  game  was 
going  along  nicely.  I  was  sitting  at  the  head  holding  the 
lamp,  and  getting  the  cuts.  At  least  fifteen  dollars  was 
in  the  betting,  when,  on  hearing  a  slight  noise  to  my  back 
like  some  one  creeping,  I  looked  around — and,  man!  The 
room  was  full  of  bulls  with  dark  lanterns,  which  they  at 
that  moment  flashed  upon  us! 

"I  didn't  know  what  to  do  for  a  moment.  'Up  with 
yu'  hands,  niggers!'  they  cried.  All  the  shines  looked 
then  into  the  barrels  of  a  bunch  a-guns.  'Don't  try  no 
monkey  business  there,  you  big  nigger/  the  sargent  cried, 
as  he  observed  me  shifting  about.  All  the  time,  though, 
I  was  edging  toward  a  place  I  knew  none  ov'm  didn't  see. 
Suddenly,  I  drops  the  lamp,  and  there  is  some  tall  cussin'. 
A  little  pup — I  think  he  was  a  sup' — put  a  star  on  the 
back  of  my  head" — he  turned  and  Wyeth  saw  it.  "I 


152  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

staggered  about  now  like  I  was  knocked  out.  They  were 
all  over  us  now,  a-hand  cuffin'  the  nigga's  like  a  lot  of 
cattle  with  halters.  By  this  time  I  see's  my  way  clear  t' 
make  this  break.  One  sucker  spots  me  and  cries:  'Look 
out!  That  big  nigga!'  But  they  were  too  late.  I  had 
my  hand  on  the  knob  of  a  door  that  none  ov'm  have 
seen;  and,  swinging  it  open  quickly,  I  ducked  out.  As  I 
did  so,  one  of  the  bulls  takes  a  shot  at  me,  but  missed. 
He  was  determined  to  have  me,  though,  if  possible,  so 
he  comes  after  me  in  a  hurry.  That's  where  I  am  wise 
and  he  wasn't.  There  is  a  fence  a  few  feet  from  the 
door,  that  he  didn't  see.  Out  he  came  after  me  in  a 
blind  fury,  and,  'bing!'  He  ran  full  into  the  fence,  and 
knocked  the  wind  out  of  himself.  I  saw  my  chance. 
I  was  mad  and  scared  now,  too;  so  I  rushed  upon  him 
while  he  was  staggering  about  and  'bingo!'  I  landed  on 
him,  and  knocked  him  cold.  Then  I  'beat'  it.  I  had  his 
gun  and  club  and  'peeper,'  and  I  flew.  Out  the  back 
way  I  went  like  a  race  horse.  In  the  rear,  two  or  three 
bulls  were  a-workin'  over  this  bull  that  I  done  knocked 
stiff.  I  entered  the  alley,  and  ran  until  I  reached  Bell 
street.  An  onry  bunch  of  dogs  kept  barking  away  at  me 
as  I  hurried  along,  and  kept  me  scared,  because  I  's 

raid  I'd  be  located  by  other  bulls.  I  ran  down  one,  a 
ittl  c  pug-nosed  bull.  He  was  game  and  tried  to  bite. 
I  reached  down  and  got'm  by  the  head,  whirled  him  over 
my  shoulder  three  or  four  times,  and  when  I  turned  him 
loose,  he  landed  beside  a  second  story  window,  and  fell 
to  the  ground  a  dead  dog,  I  didn't  try  to  see.  I  then 
began  to  jump  fences.  I  bet  I  jumped  a  dozen  fences, 
and  then  got  hung  on  the  last  one,  which  held  my  shirt. 
I  fell  off  at  last,  and  liked  to  have  bust  open.  My  face 
was  bleeding,  and  my  head,  while  my  shirt  was  soaked. 
I  looked  like  the  devil.  I  at  last  tore  off  the  shirt,  and 
tried  to  tie  up  my  head,  then  went  to  my  brother-in-law's." 

"Gee!"  exclaimed  Sidney,  "but  you  certainly  had 
some  experience!" 

"Aw,  man,  I  done  some  runnin',  believe  me!"  he 
declared,  and  looked  grim. 

"They  had  plenty  a-liquah — the  bootlegs,  too — ,  so  's 


EFFINGHAM  163 

soon  's  Fs  cleaned  up  with  my  head  bathed  and  a  clean 
shirt,  I  took  a  few  drinks,  and  went  to  bed,  feeling  all 
right. 

"I  laid  around  town  hid  away,  until  he  could  slip  me 
my  clothes  and  a  few  dollars.  So  I  happened  to  know 
this  porter,  and  arranged  to  come  over  tonight,  and  here 
I  am,"  and  he  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"How  did  those  they  arrested  come  out,  and  how  come 
the  cops  to  be  next  to  your  little  game?"  Wyeth  in 
quired,  casually. 

"Oh,  yes,"  cried  Legs.  "I  forget  to  tell  you  that  part 
of  it.  You  see,  there  was  a  guy  in  the  crowd — or  had 
been,  rather,  whose  wife  didn't  want  him  to  gamble. 
Now  he  came  down  there  and  lost  what  little  he  had,  and 
went  home  drunk.  His  wife,  of  course,  learned  that  he 
had  lost  his  money,  and  got  sore.  He  was  a  damned 
tramp,  and  told  her  the  whole  story,  with  tears,  perhaps, 
and  you  know  a  nigga  with  tears,  so  she  went  and  put 
the  cops  next. 

"Now  'bout  them  other  shines — the  ones  who  got 
arrested — they  came  before  Judge  Loyal's  the  next 
morning,  and  got  ten  seventy-five  each." 

"I  thought  it  was  fifteen  seventy-five  for  gaming." 

"They  were  let  off  lighter,  owing  to  the  fact  that  I  was 
not  brought.  If  they'd  a  caught  me,  it  would  have  been 
fifteen  seventy-five  for  them,  and  about  a  hundred  for  me." 

Wyeth  laughed  amusedly. 

"You  don't  gamble  or  drink  liquah,  either,  do  you?" 
he  asked,  and  then  answered  his  own  question.  "No,  I 
know  you  don't.  You're  lucky  for  using  such  common 
sense.  It  doesn't  pay,  even  if  four  nigga's  out-a  five  do. 
Yeh,"  he  went  on  wearily,  "only  the  straight  and  narrow 
path  leads  to  happiness  in  the  long  run,"  and  with  that 
he  turned  on  his  side,  and  went  to  sleep. 

"Say,"  he  cried  suddenly,  raising  up,  "what  did  you 
pay?"  Then  looked  around  quickly  to  see  if  he  had  been 
overheard. 

"Two  and  a  half,"  the  other  replied.  "How  much 
did  you?" 

Legs  held  up  two  fingers.  "I  told'm  't'was  all  I  had, 
and  I  didn't  have  but  a  precious  little  more." 


154  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"Are  you  acquainted  with  any  one  in  Chicago?" 
Wyeth  inquired. 

"Aw,  yeh,  a  plenty;  but  I  am  not  going  on  through 
now.  I'm  going  to  stop  in  Effingham  for  a  while,  it 
depends." 

"Hello,  Red,"  cried  young  Hatfield,  coming  up  now, 
rubbing  his  half  closed  eyes.  "I  see  you  got  out  all 
right." 

"Say,  man!"  cried  Legs.  "Didn't  I  get  out  of  that 
thing  in  luck?" 

"Bet  your  life  on  that  you  did,"  commented  Hatfield. 
"If  they'd  have  gotten  you,  the  devil  would  have  been 
to  pay."  He  laughed  a  low,  hard  laugh,  and  then  added: 
"Those  church  people  have  had  their  eyes  on  your 
place  for  some  time,  and  the  chances  are  if  you  had 
been  caught,  they'd  have  appeared  against  you." 

"They  certainly  put  old  Jack  Bell  out  of  business 
proper,"  Legs  commented,  thoughtfully.  "That  old 
nigga  conducted  such  a  rotten  dump  and  tiger,  though; 
and  all  those  dirty  little  girls  around  on  top  of  it,  I  don't 
wonder." 

"Wonder  whether  he  had  any  money  left  when  they 
got  through  with  him?"  Hatfield  inquired. 

"Hard  to  tell,"  said  Legs.  "They  fined  him  out  of 
hundreds,  that  I  do  know." 

By  this  time,  the  train  was  entering  the  city.  From 
the  car  could  be  seen  an  incomplete  mass  of  varied  build 
ings,  little  shacks  that  faced  alleys,  and  at  the  front  of 
which  played  dozens  of  little  unbleached  pickaninnies. 
Wyeth  viewed  the  city  as  the  train  crept  slowly  along, 
and  his  impression  did  not  agree  with  what  he  had 
gathered  from  reading  of  it.  It  was  not,  he  felt  positive, 
the  city  Attalia  was,  although  claiming  almost  an  equal 
number  of  people. 

"You  see  those  two  brick  cupola's  extending  into  the 
air?  "  he  heard  Hatfield  saying.  "  That's  a  Negro  Baptist 
church."  He  was  mistaken,  however,  for  the  same 
proved  to  be  the  large,  new  station,  the  pride  of  the  city. 

Soon  the  train  rolled  into  this,  and  a  few  minutes 
later,  they  stood  in  the  waiting  room. 


EFFINGHAM  155 

"It's  going  to  cost  like  the  dickens  to  get  all  these 
grips  of  your  hauled,"  said  Hatfield,  with  a  frown. 

"Only  had  to  pay  thirty-five  cents  to  get  them  to  the 
depot  in  Attalia."  He  walked  to  the  lower  end  of  the 
platform,  and  began  a  series  of  inquiries  relative  to  the 
hauling  of  the  same.  He  soon  came  upon  an  express 
man,  who  agreed  to  unload  them  for  fifty  cents,  at  where- 
ever  they  found  a  room. 

The  three  walked  down  a  level  street,  paved  with 
brick.  On  either  side  a  lot  of  houses  appeared  behind  a 
row  of  trees,  dense  with  foliage.  It  was  a  calm,  soft 
morning,  and  the  sun,  red  and  glorious,  was  just  peeping 
out  of  the  east.  The  street  they  followed  led  from  the 
depot  into  the  business  section.  Perhaps  eight  blocks 
ahead  of  them,  several  buildings  of  extraordinary  height, 
stood  outlined  far  above  those  about  them.  Wyeth 
counted  the  windows  of  two,  and  found  them  to  total 
sixteen. 

"There  are  two  or  three  buildings  here  higher  than 
any  in  Attalia,"  said  Hatfield,  following  his  gaze.  "I 
think  the  ones  you  have  been  noticing,  are  twenty-five 
stories  high." 

The  other  whistled.    "That's  going  some!" 

Soon  they  were  well  into  the  business  section.  "Let's 
go  by  and  look  at  that  hotel  they  have  just  completed 
and  opened,"  suggested  Legs;  for,  just  then,  a  little  to 
the  right,  the  outline  of  that  beautiful  structure  arose. 
It  was  a  grand  affair,  to  say  the  least,  and  stood  as  a 
monument  to  the  enterprise  of  the  populace.  It  was 
claimed,  by  them,  to  be  the  swellest  in  the  south. 

"I  think  I  can  get  on  there  after  a  bit,"  said  Legs. 
"I'm  a  head  waiter  by  trade,  but  I  haven't  done  any 
hotel  work  for  some  little  time  now." 

"I  hear  they  brought  all  the  waiters  from  the  north," 
said  Hatfield. 

"Well,"  said  Legs,  "I'll  be  from  the  north  when  the 
time  comes,  so  I  can  make  a  fit  if  there  is  an  opening." 

"You'll  pass,  Red,"  laughed  Hatfield,  as  they  walked 
onward  now  in  a  different  direction. 

As  Wyeth  saw  Effingham,  he  observed  that  it  lay  very 


156  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

differently  from  Attalia.  It  had  been  built  up  recently, 
so  to  speak,  and  had,  therefore,  broad,  spacious  streets, 
unusually  so,  he  thought,  as  he  now  found  himself  in  the 
heart  of  the  business  district.  Perhaps  they  may  have 
seemed  wider,  because  he  had  become  accustomed  to  the 
narrow  highways  of  Attalia.  In  addition  to  the  wide 
streets,  the  sidewalks  stretched  back  from  the  build 
ings  they  fronted,  from  twelve  to  twenty  feet,  giving 
pedestrians  plenty  of  room  to  walk  unconcernedly  along. 
As  they  continued  on  their  way,  he  further  observed  that 
the  business  section  covered  an  unusually  large  area,  and 
it  was  hard  to  tell  which  might  be  called  the  main  street. 
As  the  street  cars  clanged  by  him,  he  noticed  another 
feature,  also.  The  position  occupied  by  the  Negro  pas 
sengers.  They  entered  and  left  the  car  from  the  front 
instead  of  from  the  rear,  as  was  the  custom  in  Attalia. 

"Negroes  do  lots  of  business  in  this  town,"  said  Hat- 
field,  as  they  came  abreast  of  a  large,  new  building,  that 
reached  five  stories  into  the  air.  "This,  now,"  said  he, 
pausing  and  surveying  the  structure,  "is  the  Dime 
Savings  Bank  building."  Wyeth,  having  read  much 
about  the  bank,  observed  the  building  carefully.  To  one 
side,  through  the  street  door,  there  was  no  entry,  or, 
rather,  the  small  entry  was  to  one  side  of  the  building, 
and  not  in  the  middle,  and  one  elevator  was  in  operation. 
Straight  back  from  where  they  stood,  the  open  doors  of 
the  bank  (which  the  janitor  was  now  sweeping)  revealed 
the  inside  of  the  institution. 

A  few  hours  later,  their  wanderings  brought  them 
back  again  before  the  bank,  which  they  entered.  It 
proved  to  be  a  busy  place,  and  at  that  hour,  was  filled 
with  black  people,  depositing  and  withdrawing  money, 
and  attending  to  other  business  in  connection  therewith. 
He  observed,  in  the  first  glance,  that  the  furnishing  was 
elegant.  Behind  the  first  desk,  enclosed  by  an  oak  office 
fence,  sat  a  black  man,  the  cashier  he  thought,  since  the 
insignia  was  plated  conspicuously  before  him.  And  still 
to  the  left  of  him,  behind  a  grating  with  the  insignia  of 
Collections  before  it,  was  another  man,  and  he  was  blacker 
still.  And  then,  in  the  next  cage,  over  which  was  labeled 


EFFINGHAM  157 

boldly,  Receiving  Teller,  worked  still  another  black  man. 
He  was  younger,  and  he  worked  rapidly,  counting  the 
money  that  was  continually  being  thrust  to  him.  There 
was  another  cage  to  the  right  of  him,  and  this  was  marked 
Paying.  Behind  this  worked  another  black  man,  young 
and  intelligent,  and  seeming  perfectly  efficient,  as  had  the 
others.  In  the  rear,  working  over  books,  he  saw  the  first 
mulatto.  Another,  brown-skinned  this  time,  worked  near 
him,  and  these  made  up  the  active  members  of  the  bank. 
No  blue  veins  held  sway  here.  It  was  truly  a  black 
man's  bank.  It  was,  as  he  had  long  since  learned,  the 
largest  in  the  country  conducted  by  black  people,  and 
the  footing  exceeded  a  half  million  by  almost  a  hundred 
thousand  dollars. 

Young  Hatfield,  who  was  a  student  in  one  of  the 
colleges  of  Attalia,  had  been  to  the  city  before,  was  well 
acquainted,  and  pointed  out  the  many  places  of  interest, 
and,  in  particular,  those  conducted  by  black  people. 

"The  president  of  this  bank,  Dr.  Jerauld,"  he  ex 
plained,  "is  in  failing  health,  and  is  substituted  by  the 
vice,  Dr.  Dearford." 

"I  see,"  acknowledged  the  other.  "So  the  president, 
then,  is  a  physician." 

"No,"  corrected  the  other,  "a  minister." 

Wyeth  recalled  now,  that  "Reverend "or "Elder"  was 
almost  a  thing  of  the  past  among  Negro  preachers. 
They  were  all  called,  and  called  themselves  "doctors." 
But  he  did  not  then  realize  to  what  extent  this  title  was 
usurped.  Beyond  the  instant  of  medicine  and  dentistry, 
he  had  noted  that  "doctor"  was  an  honorary  term,  con 
ferred  upon  men  who  had  done  something  notable  in  the 
evolution  of  mankind;  but  he  was  soon  to  learn  that  the 
title  had  become  a  fetish  with  his  people,  sought  after 
and  preempted  by  any  and  everyone  without  even  the 
remotest  right  to  claim  it. 

"Everything  that  has  ever  been  started  down  south 
has  been  done  by  the  preachers.  A  Negro  preacher  down 
here,  in  the  past  in  particular,  has  headed  everything. 
Of  course,  that  would  be  natural,  granting  that  almost 
every  man  with  ambition  to  be  before  the  public  has 


158  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

been  a  preacher,"  Hatfield  explained.  "Now,  for  ex 
ample,  the  largest  insurance  company  in  Attalia — that  is, 
with  offices  there  and  conducted  by  our  people — has  for 
its  president,  a  preacher  located  in  this  town." 

"I've  heard  of  him.     His  name  is— 

"Dr.  Walden,"  he  explained.  "He's  the  pastor  of  a 
big  church  on  the  other  side  of  town.  Dr.  Jerauld, 
before  he  retired,  was  pastor  of  the  Sixth  Avenue  church." 

"And  what  denomination  do  these  preacher  business 
men  represent?" 

"Oh,  Baptist,  of  course.  As  I  said,  they  are  at  the 
head  of  everything,  including,"  and  he  smiled  humor 
ously,  "a  great  many  wives  of  other  men."  They  both 
laughed,  and  Legs,  who  was  almost  forgotten,  joined  in. 

By  this  time,  they  were  wandering  aimlessly  down 
a  street  that  finally  came  to  an  end,  and  ran  abruptly 
into  a  brick  wall.  Changing  their  course  into  another 
street,  they  continued  their  indefinite  pilgrimage.  Pres 
ently,  they  paused  before  one  or  two  neat  looking  houses, 
and  inquired  regarding  rooms.  Both  were  full.  A  con 
vention  of  preachers  was  still  in  session,  which  explained 
the  state  of  circumstances.  So,  on  again  they  went, 
until  they  paused  at  a  corner.  A  middle-aged  woman 
sat  on  the  front  porch  of  a  house  that  rose  to  two  stories, 
and  was  decorated  with  two  vine-laden  porches.  The 
house  appeared  to  contain  possibly  seven  or  eight  rooms. 

"Hello,  Mis'!"  exclaimed  Legs,  in  greeting  so  familar 
that  Wyeth  felt  he  surely  must  know  her. 

"How-do,"  she  answered  as  familiarly  and  smiling. 

"Three  tramps  we  are  from  Attalia,  and  without  a 
place  to  roost.  Do  you  happen  to  have  a  spare  pole  or 
two?" 

"Sho  has.  Come  upon  the  po'ch  and  be  seated,"  she 
invited. 

"A-hem.  That's  when  you  said  something,"  smiled 
Legs,  "eh,  Mis'?"  She  joined  in  the  humor. 

"Well,  boys,"  said  Legs,  when  they  were  comfortably 
seated,  "this  looks  good  to  me.  Supposing  we  just 
hang  up  here,  and  send  for  our  stuff?" 

It  was  agreeable  to  the  other  two,  and  they  were, 


EFFINGHAM  159 

therefore,  duly  installed,  three  in  a  room.  Legs,  being 
the  longest,  was  given  a  bed  to  himself,  while  Hatfield 
and  Wyeth  agreed  to  share  another  together.  It  was 
fortunate  for  both  that  it  was  arranged  thus,  since  Legs 
proved  to  be  a  dreadful  night  man,  and,  from  his  ap 
parently  restless  way  of  tossing,  required  a  halter. 

"Any  saloons  around  here,  Mis'?"  he  inquired  shortly, 
when  she  reappeared  on  the  porch  a  few  minutes  later. 

"Sho  is!"  she  exclaimed.  "Yeh,  most  sho.  Go  right 
down  this  street,  turn  the  corner,  and  across  the  street 
near  the  other  corner,  is  what  you  want,"  she  laughed, 
taking  them  all  for  granted.  Wyeth  and  Hatfield  fol 
lowed  Legs  to  the  inevitable  fountain  he  now  sought 
energetically. 

"Got  t'  have  a  little  liquah  before  I  c'n  feel  like  my 
self,"  he  grinned,  as  they  sauntered  along. 

"Hello!"  called  some  one  from  the  rear.  Turning, 
they  observed  a  medium  sized  Negro  walking  rapidly  in 
their  direction,  and  beckoning  to  them.  They  halted, 
and  presently  he  stood  before  them,  introducing  himself. 

"Pardon  me,  gentlemen,"  he  began  very  properly; 
"but  the  Mis'  back  there,"  pointing  in  the  direction  of 
the  house  they  had  just  left,"  was  telling  me  that  you 
have  just  taken  a  room  with  her,  and,  since  I  am  the 
man  of  the  house,  I  wish  to  offer  my  name  and  make 
you  welcome." 

He  was  very  cordial.  His  name  was  Moore,  John 
Moore,  he  said,  and  to  describe  him,  our  pen  fails  to  a 
degree.  He  had,  however,  an  odd  looking  face.  His 
cheek  bones  were  high,  slightly  Indian-like,  while  his 
face  was  broad.  His  nose  was  not  flat,  nor  was  it  high 
or  medium,  it  was — just  a  nose,  that's  all.  He  held  his 
head  forward  aggressively,  his  eyes  were  twinkling,  and 
possessed  a  cordiality  that,  to  a  careful  observer,  was 
distrustful.  And  still,  his  appearance  in  general,  was  that 
of  a  Negro  who  might  be  expected  to  bluff,  but  not  to 
fight;  to  steal  when  the  opportunity  was  ripe,  with  enough 
cunningness  to  keep  from  being  caught.  Otherwise,  he 
was  apparently  harmless. 

They  acknowledged  his  welcome,  and,  joining  them, 
they  all  went  toward  the  place  of  happiness  by  proxy. 


160  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"Fm  buyin'  this,"  said  Moore,  as  they  Iftied  the  bar, 
four  abreast. 

"Let  me  do  the  buying  this  time/'  insisted  Legs,  who 
proved  himself  a  sport,  and  a  good  mixer. 

"I've  paid  him  already,"  said  Moore,  as  if  in  dis 
missal,  shoving  at  the  sairie  time,  a  half  dollar  across 
the  bar. 

"Whiskey,"  nodded  Legs  familiarly,  to  the  bartender. 

"Little  liquah,  too,"  from  Moore. 

"Beer." 

"Beer." 

"Drink  whiskey!"  insisted  Legs  and  Moore,  of  the 
other  two.  "Something  that  has  the  kick." 

"These  are  my  sons,"  said  Legs,  teasingly. 

"Hold  on  heh',  George,"  argued  Moore  with  the  bar 
tender,  "you  know  how  I  take  mine.  A  half-a-pint  V 
two  glasses."  The  bartender  obeyed. 

Here  Wyetn  observed,  was  diplomacy,  albeit  economy. 
Moore  paid  twenty-five  cents  for  the  half  pint,  wherein 
he  and  Legs  had  six  sociable  drinks,  three  a-piece; 
whereas,  the  same  would  have  totalled  sixty  cents  other 
wise. 

"How's  this  town  for  gettin'  hold  a-something? " 
inquired  Legs  of  Moore,  when  John  Barleycorn  was 
doing  his  duty. 

"Best  town  in  the  south  to  get  it,  if  you're  wise," 
Moore  winked. 

Legs  responded  with  a  big  wink.  "I'm  the  man  that 
put  'w'  in  whiskey,"  he  smiled.  "I'n  get  mine  when 
it's  in  the  gettin'." 

"What's  your  line?"  from  Moore,  pouring  more 
whiskey. 

"Anything  from  heavin'  coal  to  sellin'  liquah  and 
operatin'  a  crap  game,  and  a  little  'skin'  when  the 
crowd's  right." 

"I  see,"  said  the  other  thoughtfully,  then  added: 
"And  your  friends?" 

"This  lad  here  is  going  to  school  to  learn  how  to  get 
'his  without  workin';  while  the  other  boy,"  pointing  to 
Wyeth,  "is  already  doin'  it." 


EFFINGHAM  161 

"Well,  men/'  began  Moore,  as  he  opened  a  fresh  half 

Eint  that  Legs  paid  for,  "as  I  said,  'f  you're  wise,  Effing- 
am  is  the  best  town  in  the  country  for  pickin's.  It  is, 
as  you  should  know,  the  greatest  industrial  center  in  the 
south." 

"So  I  have  understood,"  interposed  Wyeth,  waiving 
the  bartender's  invitation  aside;  "I  am  anxious  to  learn 
something,  everything  about  the  town,  and  the  colored 
people." 

"Are  they  employed  in  considerable  numbers  at  the 
mines,  steel  mills  and  furnaces  about  here,  of  which  the 
city  possesses  so  many?" 

"Thousands  upon  thousands,"  he  was  informed. 

"And  how  are  they  paid?  From  a  personal  standpoint, 
I'd  be  glad  to  know?"  went  on  Wyeth. 

"All  kinds  of  wages,  and  at  various  times.  Some 
receive  as  low  as  a  dollar  and  a  quarter,  while  others 
make  as  high  as  seven  and  eight;  but  the  average  wage 
runs  from  a  dollar  fifty,  to  three  dollars." 

"How's  the  crap  games?"  from  Legs,  with  the  usual 
smile. 

"Nigga's  will  shoot  craps,  yu'  know,"  grinned  Moore. 
"I  shoot  a  little  myself  when  the  moon's  right,"  he 
winked. 

"I  want  t'  find  a  good  game  as  soon  as  possible,  and 
win  about  a  hundred,"  said  Legs,  beginning  to  show  the 
effects  of  liquor.  Hatfield  and  Wyeth  left  them  to  their 
cheerful  diversion,  which  was  now,  to  all  appearance, 
warming  to  the  superlative. 

The  former  went  toward  town,  looking  for  certain 
friends.  Wyeth  went  back  to  the  place  where  he  was 
going  to  stay,  and  retired.  They  had  called  up  for  their 
luggage  before  they  went  to  the  saloon.  Wyeth  was 
sleeping  peacefully,  when  he  was  aroused  by  an  argument 
on  the  porch.  He  tried  to  close  his  ears,  but  the  same 
was  persistent.  It  was  between  the  landlady  and  the 
expressman,  who  had  arrived  with  the  stuff. 

"That  little  trunk  is  as  heavy  as  lead,"  he  heard  that 
worthy  saying. 

"That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  from  the  landlady. 

11 


162  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"They  left  fifty  cents  here  to  pay  for  it,  and  you  must 
have  agreed  to  that  amount,  or  they  would  have  left 
more." 

"Seventy-five  cents,  seventy-five  cents.  That  little 
trunk  is  like  something  filled  with  bricks." 

"My  trunk,"  mumbled  Wyeth,  coming  to  himself,  and 
listening  to  the  argument.  "And  that  sucker  is  trying  to 
work  her.  The  dirty  cur!"  he  now  cried,  angry  for  two 
reasons.  One  for  being  disturbed  when  he  was  sleeping 
so  peacefully,  and  another  for  being  worked,  or  trying 
to  be.  With  a  bound  he  was  on  the  floor,  and  in  a  jiffy 
he  was  in  his  trousers  and  upon  the  porch. 

"Well,  T  y'  ain'  go'n  pay  it,  Til  haf  t'  take  th'  stuff 
back,"  the  expressman  said,  as  Wyeth  came  up.  The 
other  did  not  see  him  until  he  mounted  the  porch.  Then 
he  looked  into  his  eyes  which  were  fighting,  and  recoiled. 

"What's  this  you  are  going  to  do!"  he  demanded, 
filling  the  doorway,  and  bestowing  upon  the  other,  a  look 
that  corresponded  with  his  feelings. 

"Well,  stuff  I  brung  down  heah's  mor'n  I  thought 
't'was,  so  I'll  haf  t'  have  a  quarter  mo'!" 

"What  kind  of  a  proposition  did  we  make  with  you  in 
regard  to  hauling  it  at  the  depot  awhile  ago? " 

"You  said  yu'd  give  me  a  haf  a-dollah  fo'  haulin'  it, 
but  I  didn't  say  I'd  do  it  fo'  a  haf,"  he  sulked,  evasively. 

Wyeth  glared  at  him,  but  the  other  refused  to  meet 
his  eye.  "Then,"  he  began,  "when  you  took  hold  of  it 
and  loaded  it  into  your  wagon,  you  subsequently  agreed 
to  my  offer,  and  now  I  want  to  see  you  get  more." 

"I'll  haf  t'  take  the  stuff,"  argued  the  other,  shifting 
about,  but  keeping  at  a  safe  distance.  Something  in  the 
eye  of  the  other  did  not  offer  welcome. 

"  Give  him  a  quater  more,"  called  Legs,  who  had  returned 
in  the  meantime,  and  had  been  trying  to  catch  a  little 
sleep. 

"I  don't  intend  to  pay  him  one  little  dime  more!" 
exclaimed  Wyeth  stubbornly. 

"Then  I'll  haf  t'  see  'n'  officer,"  bluffed  the  other,  and 
turning,  he  started  briskly  down  the  street.  Wyeth 
learned  later,  he  was  sure  he  could  not  have  found  one. 


EFFINGHAM  163 

He  was  not  looking  for  any,  but  the  landlady  and  Legs 
made  up  the  quarter,  and  calling  him  back,  paid  him. 

"Books  is  stubborn  when  he  thinks  he's  been  worked. 
M-m,"  said  Legs,  going  back  to  bed.  "Yeh,  comes 
down  to  a  show,  believe  he'd  fight." 


CHAPTER  TWO 

"These  Negroes  in  Effingham  Are  Nigga's  Proper" 

The  next  day  dawned  calm  and  beautiful,  and  Sidney 
made  preparations  to  begin  his  canvassing.  In  one  city 
in  Ohio,  and  which  was  also  a  great  industrial  center,  he 
had  found  much  success  in  selling  his  book  to  the  multi 
tude  of  workers  employed  there.  Therefore,  with  what 
Moore  had  already  told  him,  he  was  anxious  to  get  his 
work  under  way. 

The  first  thing  necessary,  of  course,  would  be  to  secure 
agents.  School  had  closed  recently,  and  he  had  intended 
coming  to  the  city,  to  enlist  some  of  the  teachers  for 
that  work.  Securing  a  number  of  names  and  addresses, 
he  began  calling  on  them,  but  without  any  immediate 
success.  Late  that  afternoon,  however,  a  teacher,  a 
settled  woman,  gave  him  the  name  and  address  of  one 
whom  she  felt,  she  assured  him,  would  take  up  the  work. 
"At  least,"  she  said,  "she  always  does  something  during 
vacation.  Her  name  is  Miss  Palmer,"  so  thither  he  went. 

She  lived  not  far  away,  and  near  the  center  of  a  block 
in  a  small  two  story  house,  rusty  and  somewhat  ram 
shackle.  He  mounted  the  steps,  which  were  perhaps 
a  half  dozen,  and  asked  for  her.  She  was  out,  they  in 
formed  him,  but  was  expected  to  return  shortly.  Before 
they  were  through  telling  him,  she  came.  She  was  a 
brown-skinned  woman,  although  in  the  fading  twilight, 
she  struck  him  as  being  a  mulatto.  Of  medium  height 
and  size,  she  gave  a  welcome  that  played  about  the 
corners  of  her  small  mouth.  Her  chin  was  long  and 
tapered  to  a  small  point,  which  made  her  appearance 
unusual;  her  eyes  were  small,  very  small,  and  playful. 

They  were  very  soon  in  conversation,  and  he  was 
pleased  to  learn,  after  he  had  talked  with  her  a  few 
minutes,  that  she  was  a  woman  with  the  strength  of  her 

164 


THESE  NEGROES  ARE  NIGGA'S  PROPER  165 

convictions,  although  there  was  something  about  her  he 
did  not,  and  was  not  likely,  he  felt,  to  understand  for 
some  time  to  come,  and  he  didn't. 

Presently  he  stated  the  object  of  his  visit,  and  sug 
gested  that  she  take  up  the  work  during  her  vacation. 
She  shook  her  head  dubiously,  and  said: 

"I  don't  mind  canvassing;  but  I  don't  want  to  sell 
books." 

"Why  not  books?"  he  inquired,  in  a  tone  of  surprise, 
and  then  added:  "It  would  seem  that,  being  a  teacher, 
selling  a  nice  book  would  be  preferable  to  something 
else." 

"Yes,  that  may  be,"  said  she,  thoughtfully  now," 
"but  nigga's  here  don't  read.  At  least  they  won't  buy 
and  pay  for  books.  Sell  them  toilet  articles  or  hair 
goods,  something  to  straighten  their  kinks  or  rub  on  their 
faces,  anything  guaranteed  to  make  their  hair  grow  soft 
and  curly,  or  their  black  faces  brighter." 

He  laughed  long.  She  now  observed  him  with  some 
thing  akin  to  admiration.  "Then  the  people  of  your 
community — the  black  people — don't  consider  feeding 
the  mind  an  essential  to  moral  welfare,"  he  suggested 
mirthfully. 

"Naw,  Lord,"  she  replied  flatly.  "These  Negroes  in 
Effingham  are  nigga's  proper.  They  think  nothing  about 
reading  and  trying  to  learn  something,  they  only  care  for 
dressing  up  and  having  a  good  time." 

He  was  silent  and  resigned  for  a  time.  They  now  sat 
together  in  a  swing  that  hung  suspended  from  the  porch. 
Directly,  when  he  had  said  nothing  for  some  time,  she 
looked  again  at  him,  and  with  something  in  her  demeanor 
that  was  anxious. 

"What  book  is  it?"  she  inquired. 

He  told  her. 

"That's  a  good  title,  and  should  take  if  anything  will," 
she  said,  a  little  more  serious  now  than  before.  She  did 
not  impress  Wyeth  as  being  much  of  a  literary  person,  as 
he  now  observed  her.  For  a  moment,  he  felt  the  interest 
wan,  that  he  had  experienced  the  moment  she  came  up. 
She  was  speaking. 


166  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"I  sold  books  one  summer,  'Up  From  Bondage/  by 
the  greatest  Negro  the  race  has  ever  known,  and  I  had 
a  time!  I  never  want  such  another  experience!  They 
told  me  a  thousand  lies,  and  had  me  trotting  after  them 
all  summer,"  whereupon,  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  dis 
gustedly. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "I'm  confident  there  are  people,  and 
plenty,  who  do  care  to  read,  and  will  likewise  buy  when 
the  book  is  properly  presented.  So,  of  course,  the  duty 
of  a  distributer,  will  be  to  find  these  people,  and  it  is  for 
this  purpose,  I  am  here.  I  do  not,  of  course,  know  what 
kind  of  a  black  population  you  have;  but  it  is  reasonable 
to  suppose  that,  if  I  could  and  did,  personally  sell  twelve 
hundred  copies  in  Attalia  in  a  matter  of  five  months, 
I  should  be  able  to  find  a  few  readers  here.  Do  you  not 
agree  with  me?" 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  she;  "but  you  cannot  as  yet 
appreciate  the  fact  that  Effingham  has  the  orneriest 
Negroes  in  the  world.  I  am  frank  when  I  say  that  I  do 
not  have  any  confidence  in  them,  but  wait,"  she  ad 
monished,  "you'll  find  out." 

They  sat  together  now,  and  conversed  on  topics  other 
wise  than  books  and  literature,  which  he  observed,  could 
be  engaged  in  with  more  success.  Moreover,  as  the 
minutes  wore  on,  he  also  came  to  see  that  Miss  Palmer 
was  somewhat  sentimental.  She  smiled  freely,  moved 
close  at  times,  and  then  away,  artfully;  saw  him  at 
moments  out  of  liquid  eyes,  and  said  her  words  with  a 
coquetishness  that  came  by  careful  practice. 

And  so,  Sidney  Wyeth,  a  man  free  to  practice  the  arts 
of  coquetry — if  a  man  may  do  so — accepted  Miss  Palmer's 
attention,  and  to  that  end  he  soon  became  a  friend. 

When  he  departed  that  evening,  she  had  taken  the 
agency,  and  had  agreed  to  go  with  him  on  the  morrow. 

That  night  it  rained,  a  heavy  rain,  and  when  he  went 
forth  the  following  morning,  the  streets  were  heavy  with 
mud  wherever  there  was  no  paving — which  was,  in  this 
part  of  town,  almost  everywhere.  Moreover,  it  showed 
signs  of  raining  more.  It  had  been  one  of  the  dryest 
springs  the  south  had  ever  seen,  and  it  was  now  probable 


THESE  NEGROES  ARE  NIGGA'S  PROPER  167 

that  the  deficiency  in  rainfall  would  be  eradicated  by 
an  excess  in  moisture. 

Wyeth,  however,  was  impatient  to  begin  as  soon  as 
possible.  He  wished  to  ascertain  to  what  extent  intel 
ligence  and  regard  for  higher  morals  was  prevalent  in  this 
town. 

Miss  Palmer  was  not  ready  when  he  arrived,  and  it 
was  two  hours  before  she  was.  "  Thought  since  it  rained," 
she  explained,  "that  you  would  not,  perhaps,  go  out 
today." 

"Won't  know  the  difference  this  time  next  year,"  he 
jested,  with  a  cheerful  smile,  nevertheless,  surveying  the 
threatening  elements  anxiously. 

"If  we  go  into  the  quarter  districts,"  she  advised,  "we 
will  most  likely  get  our  feet  wet — muddy." 

"Are  there  no  sidewalks  out  there?"  he  inquired. 

They  had  decided,  the  evening  before,  at  her  sug 
gestion,  to  begin  in  one  of  the  many  little  towns,  in 
habited  by  Negroes  employed  in  the  mines,  mills  and 
furnaces,  that  made  Effingham  what  it  was.  These  little 
towns  encircle  the  city  proper,  laying,  many  of  them,  at 
a  considerable  distance,  to  be  incorporated  as*part  of  the 
city. 

Some  years  before — between  one  census  and  the  next— 
this  city  is  recorded  to  have  trebled  and  over  in  popula 
tion.  It  had,  but  in  doing  so,  it  gathered  all  these  little 
burgs  for  miles  around.  Some  of  them  were  even  beyond 
the  car  lines,  which  were  built  to  them  after  the  city  had 
incorporated  them,  and  counted  the  people  as  a  part  of 
the  population  of  Effingham.  Wyeth  perhaps,  as  well 
as  the  world  at  large,  had  not  known  this.  The  popula 
tion,  at  this  time,  was  estimated  to  be  one  hundred 
sixty-six  thousand.  Of  this  amount,  two-fifths  were 
Negroes.  Only  a  portion  had  been  born  in  Effingham; 
the  rest  came  in  the  last  few  years,  in  great,  ignorant 
hordes  from  the  rural  parts  of  the  state,  and  from  the 
states  adjoining.  And  as  Wyeth  soon  came  to  know, 
they  included  some  of  the  most  depraved  and  vicious 
creatures  humanity  has  known — but  of  this,  our  story 
will  reveal  in  due  time. 


168  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

The  most  extraordinary  part  of  Effingham,  was  its 
staggering  number  of  churches.  That  is,  among  the 
Negroes.  Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  the  city  was 
the  resort  of  every  escaped  convict,  and  the  city  where 
every  freed  one  headed  for,  which,  of  course,  naturally 
made  it  the  scene  of  excessive  depravity,  there  was,  ap 
parently,  a  great  amount  of  pious  worship.  Wyeth 
recalled,  as  he  became  better  acquainted  with  the  city 
and  the  people,  that  a  year  before,  in  a  northern  city, 
he  had  one  day,  gone  to  the  library,  where  he  found  the 
directories  of  all  cities  of  any  significance.  He  was 
preparing  a  circular  campaign,  and,  in  going  through 
the  various  directories,  chanced  to  look  through  the  part 
of  those  of  the  southern  cities  that  had  recorded  the 
churches.  Effingham  had,  according  to  an  old  one, 
almost  a  hundred  Negro  churches. 

But,  having  digressed  at  some  length,  we  will  return 
now  to  Miss  Palmer  and  Sidney  Wyeth,  preparing  to 
spread  intelligence  among  a  people  who  greatly  needed  it. 

"Sidewalks!"  Miss  Palmer  exclaimed,  in  derision, 
"Lordy,  they  hardly  have  streets  in  some  places!" 

A  few  minutes  later,  they  were  sailing  through  the 
country — although  it  was  counted  as  part  of  the  city — to 
a  town,  a  suburb,  nine  miles  distant,  a  suburb  of  mills. 
"  I  used  to  sell  toilet  articles  out  there,  on  and  right  after 
pay  days,  and  did  quite  well,"  said  she,  as  the  heavy  car 
thundered  along  at  a  great  rate  of  speed,  for  an  inter- 
urban.  "I  am  skeptical  in  regard  to  books,  though, 
because  these  are  'bad'  nigga's,  with  the  exception  of  a 
precious  few  good  ones." 

They  were  just  then  passing  through  a  district  that  was 
well  kept,  and  apparently  quiet.  "We  are  now  in  a  part 
of  the  town,  where  a  large  number  of  the  better  class  of 
our  people  reside,"  she  said,  "and  I  am  going  to  point 
out  the  homes  of  some  of  them." 

"There  is  where  Mr.  Judson,  paying  teller  at  the  Dime 
Savings  Bank,  lives."  She  pointed  to  a  handsome 
bungalow,  setting  well  back  from  the  street,  and  sur 
rounded  by  many  young  trees,  with  a  well  kept  lawn 
upon  three  sides.  "  Now  over  there  is  where  Paul  Widner 


THESE  NEGROES  ARE  NIGGA'S  PROPER  169 

contractor  and  builder,  has  his  home."  Following  the 
direction  of  her  finger,  he  was  moved  by  the  sumptuous 
and  imposing  structure  that  met  his  gaze.  "That  is  the 
finest  residence  owned  and  occupied  by  one  of  our  kind 
in  the  city/'  she  said,  with  evident  pride,.  "Still,  though, 
here  is  Dr.  Jackson's,  which  is  almost  as  fine,"  and  she 
pointed  to  another  that  was  a  credit.  "He  is  the  financial 
secretary  of  one  of  the  church  denominations  of  the  south. 

"See  that  long  house  over  there?"  she  pointed  to 
another.  "That  is  Dr.  Wayland's.  He  runs  the  drug 
store." 

"A  preacher?" 

"No;  a  pharmacist." 

They  were  now  in  the  wood,  a  deep  forest  with  great 
trees  all  about,  that  darkened  the  inside  of  the  car.  The 
picked  over  and  slim  pines,  mingled  with  large  water 
oaks,  rose  gloomily  against  the  heavy  clouds  that  now 
rumbled  ominously  overhead.  Before  long,  large  drops 
of  water  began  an  intermittent  patter  on  the  car  roof, 
while  the  windows  were  spat  upon  occasionally.  And 
then,  of  a  sudden,  the  very  heavens  seem  to  open,  and 
the  rain  fell  in  torrents.  Through  it  the  heavy  car 
pushed  resolutely  forward.  The  line  was  one  recently 
completed,  and  facilitated  travel  between  the  city  and 
the  suburb  wonderfully.  Built  of  steel,  the  cars  were 
long  and  heavy,  with  doors  that  opened  near  the  center, 
allowing  the  colored  passengers  to  enter  on  one  side  of 
the  conductor,  who  operated  the  doors,  from  a  con 
venient  position  near  the  furtherest  side  of  the  opening. 

"We  will  surely  get  soaked  today,"  grumbled  Miss 
Palmer,  but  not  lightly,  for  she  trembled  on  observing 
the  terrific  downpour. 

"How  much  further  is  it  to  this  place  we  are  going?" 
he  inquired.  To  him,  it  seemed  they  had  been  riding  an 
hour.  "You  do  not  mean  to  tell  me,  that  all  that  stretch 
of  forest  and  open  country  before  we  got  to  the  forest, 
is  a  part  of  Effingham?" 

"We  will  soon  be  there  now,"  she  evaded,  and  then 
added :  "  Effingham  includes  everything  that  electric  cars 
operating  in  and  out  of  the  city  reaches,"  and  laughed. 
He  believed  her. 


170  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

At  last,  the  big  car  came  to  a  stop.  They  alighted  in 
the  downpour,  and  rushed  to  shelter  beneath  the  porch 
of  a  small  grocery  store,  conducted  by  a  kind-faced  little 
colored  woman. 

"Oh,  how-do,  Mrs.  Brown,"  cried  Miss  Palmer,  when 
the  latter,  upon  seeing  them,  opened  the  door  and  bade 
them  enter.  "I'm  certainly  glad  to  see  you/'  whereupon 
they  kissed,  and  Miss  Palmer  cheered  the  dark  atmosphere 
with  many  cute  words. 

"Permit  me,  Mrs.  Brown,  to  introduce  Mr.  -  -  I 
forget  your  name?"  "You  see,  Mr.  Wyeth,"  said  Miss 
Palmer,  with  a  delightful  smile,  "I  taught  out  here  these 
past  three  years,  and  Mrs.  Brown  is  one  of  my  many 
friends.  Yonder  is  the  school,"  she  pointed  to  an  old 
frame  building,  that  could  barely  be  outlined  through  the 
storm.  "They  have  transferred  me  back  to  the  city 
again,"  she  turned  to  Mrs.  Brown.  "So  I  regret  to  say 
that  I  shall  not  be  with  you  next  year." 

Miss  Palmer  had  a  way  of  finishing  her  sentences  with 
a  show  of  her  fine  little  teeth;  and  her  chin,  at  such  a 
time,  reached  to  a  fine  point,  which  at  first  amused 
Sidney.  She  would  bestow  upon  him  a  coquettish  smile, 
when  she  found  his  eyes  searching  her  mysteriously. 

"Mr.  Wyeth,"  said  she,  with  her  arm  linked  now  within 
Mrs.  Brown's,  "is  general  agent  for  a  new  book  by  a 
Negro  author,  The  Tempest,  and  for  which  I  have  accepted 
the  local  agency — why  not,"  she  broke  off  suddenly, 
"show  Mrs.  Brown  the  book?" 

"She  is  clever  and  suggestive  at  the  same  time," 
thought  Sidney,  almost  aloud;  but  he  forthwith  obeyed 
the  suggestion  with  much  pleasure,  and  took  Mrs.  Brown's 
order  amid  the  rainfall,  collecting  twenty-five  cents  as  a 
guarantee  of  good  faith,  in  addition. 

It  had  ceased  raining  as  suddenly  as  it  had  com 
menced.  They  turned  to  leave  the  store,  and,  as  he 
was  passing  Miss  Palmer,  he  bumped  against  her  roughly. 
She  was  looking  at  his  picture  on  the  frontispiece  now, 
with  apparent  suspicion.  He  pretended  not  to  see  her  or 
her  suspicion,  that  had  now  grown  to  excitement.  She 
was  yet  apparently  in  some  doubt,  as  she  tried  to  make 
connections. 


THESE  NEGROES  ARE  NIGGA'S  PROPER  171 

"Look  here!  Look  here!"  she  exclaimed  at  last,  in 
subdued  excitement.  "This  picture!  This  picture!  It  is 
you!  You!"  She  held  the  book  open,  and  looked  at  him 
in  amazement.  He  waved  her  aside  depreciatively,  and 
passed  outside,  while  she  continued  gazing  at  the  picture 
in  a  state  of  excitement.  She  followed  him,  and  they 
were  alone. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  this?"  she  cried,  unable  to 
stem  her  tide  of  excitement.  She  had  lost  interest,  for 
the  present,  in  all  else,  and  pursued:  "You,  the  author 
of  this  book!"  She  now  saw  him  as  another  person 
entirely.  Feeling  much  put  out,  he  felt  something  should 
be  resorted  to,  to  dissipate  the  spell. 

"I'm  not  the  author,"  he  said,  with  straight  face. 
"Where  shall  we  go  now?"  his  demeanor  was  calm  and 
imperious. 

"Stop  next  door — no,  that's  Mrs.  Brown's  house,"  she 
said,  as  she  followed  him  in  a  meditative  mood.  "The 
next  house,"  he  heard  her  say,  as  if  speaking  from  far 
away.  Miss  Palmer  was  now  serious,  and  very  thought 
ful. 

Disturbed  by  her  discovery,  and,  in  a  measure,  discon 
certed,  Wyeth  concentrated  himself  upon  the  demon 
stration  of  the  book  to  a  creditable  degree  that  morning; 
and,  one  by  one,  with  his  voice  and  look  charged  with 
dynamite,  he  secured  those  black  people's  orders,  and  the 
deposit  wherever  they  had  the  amount  available.  Miss 
Palmer  merely  followed  him,  insisting  upon  the  point  of 
authorship,  until,  with  a  touch  of  impatience,  he  ad 
monished  her  that  their  purpose,  on  that  occasion,  was  to 
sell  the  book,  the  author,  therefore,  insofar  as  they  were 
concerned,  was  a  matter  of  secondary  consideration. 

"Going  to  be  angry  with  me  so  soon?"  she  pined, 
looking  into  his  eyes  with  a  feigned  appeal.  In  spite  of 
himself,  he  smiled  back  disconcertedly. 

"You  are  the  author,  though,  aren't  you?"  she  asked 
softly. 

He  ignored  the  question. 

"We  have  eleven  orders,  and  have  collected  a  dollar 
and  seventy-five  cents,  in  exactly  an  hour  and  a  half," 


172  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

she  informed  him,  at  the  end  of  that  time.  "Whether 
you  did  or  did  not  write  this  book — say  what  you  will, 
I'm  convinced  you  did — you  do  know  how  to  sell  it.  I 
never  heard  a  man  talk  so  fast  and  so  effectively  in  my 
life!" 

"I  must  leave  you  now,"  he  said.  "I  have  agreed  to 
be  back  in  town  for  the  afternoon,  and  help  start  my 
young  friend." 

"Please  don't  leave  me,"  she  whispered  artfully,  and 
smiled  in  her  winning  way,  then  suddenly  hurried  into 
the  next  house. 

"Thought  you  had  quit  me  for  good,  Books,"  com 
plained  young  Hatfield,  when  he  saw  Wyeth,  on  his 
return  to  the  city.  "When  we  goin'  out?" 

"As  soon  as  I  have  fed  my  face,  and  the  car  will  take 
us  to — where,  or  what  is  that  place  you  spoke  of?  Where 
the  girls  work  in  service?" 

"South  Highlands,"  he  replied. 

They  followed  the  street  until  they  came  to  the  main 
street,  or  rather,  to  one  of  the  main  streets,  and  caught 
a  car  from  the  front  end,  that  took  them  to  the  North 
Highlands,  and  not  to  the  South,  as  they  were  accustomed 
to  go. 

"You'll  have  to  pay  carfare  back,  Books,"  said  Hat- 
field.  "I  have  only  fifteen  cents  left." 

"Go  right  over  to  where  you  see  that  girl,  that  little 
colored  girl  standing  on  the  steps  that  lead  to  the  rear, 
and  tell  her  the  tale  of  The  Tempest,  and  get  her  order," 
said  Wyeth,  when  at  last  they  had  come  to  the  right  place. 

"I  thought  I  would  go  along  with  you  this  afternoon," 
he  said  with  a  frown,  but  obeyed  the  command,  never 
theless. 

Two  hours  later,  Sidney  found  him  where  they  had 
left  each  other.  "What  have  you  done?"  he  asked 
holding  back  a  frown,  because  he  felt  the  student  had 
succumbed  to  a  lack  of  confidence;  but  he  was  cheered 
in  a  degree,  when  the  other  replied: 

"I  got  four,  how  many  did  you  get?" 

"Eight,"  and  they  went  on  their  way  rejoicing. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

"I  Ham  BEEN  Married/'  Said  She 

Thirty-five  years  ago,  Effingham  was  an  unsuspected 
factor.  That  was  before  somebody  had  demonstrated 
that  the  chain  of  red  hills  encircling  the  then  small  town, 
contained  immense  deposits  of  iron  ore  and  coal,  and 
other  mineral  matter,  that  could  be  converted  into 
practical  purposes. 

Effingham  lay,  at  that  time,  in  the  valley,  where,  as 
yet,  most  of  it  is  found;  then,  it  was  regarded  as  only 
an  ordinary  town,  without  any  expectation  of  future 
greatness.  It  had,  to  be  exact,  thirty-eight  thousand, 
fourteen  years  ago,  fifteen  thousand  Negroes,  and  the 
remainder  white  population,  including  a  few  Chinese. 
Today,  the  city  boasts  of  approximately  one  hundred 
seventy  thousand. 

Thus  the  city  had  developed,  regardless  of  circum 
stances,  which  our  story  will  unfold. 

But  Sidney  Wyeth,  our  erstwhile  observer  and  literary 
contemporary,  had  not  been  long  in  Effingham,  before 
he  had  come  to  learn  that  it  was  not  the  city  Attalia  was, 
in  spite  of  its  great  industries,  and  its  million  dollar  pay 
roll,  which  was  employed  in  advertising  the  iron  city. 

To  begin  with,  capital — hard  cash — was  a  very  ex 
pensive  thing  to  use  toward  the  development  of  its 
extension.  When  the  city  incorporated  the  many  little 
towns  that  make  up  a  large  part  of  its  present  population, 
it  began  to  run  in  debt;  a  great  deficit  was  customary 
at  the  end  of  each  year,  and  now,  at  the  time  of  our 
story,  it  was  still  energetically  engaged  in  the  same 
task— piling  up  a  deficit.  The  many  little  towns  that 
are  a  part  of  the  city,  and  where  most  of  the  great  in 
dustrial  concerns  are  located,  are  practically  controlled 
by  the  interests.  But  when  the  Tennesee  Coal  and  Iron 

173 


174  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

Company  became  a  vested  interest,  it  took  over  all  these 
various  concerns,  and  merged  them  into  a  trust,  which 
is  a  problem  to  every  congress.  And  now  as  Sidney 
Wyeth  saw  it,  the  company  owned  everything.  It  almost 
owned  the  Negroes,  and  thousands  of  foreigners  who 
were  employed  by  the  company. 

But  there  was  one  thing  the  T.  C.  I.  company  did  not 
own,  and  that  was  train  loads  of  liquor  consumed  by 
its  black  help,  and,  of  course,  the  whites  also,  to  a  degree, 
but  not  in  such  proportion.  Drink  was  very  popular  in 
Effingham,  exceedingly  popular.  It  operated  to  an 
alarming  degree  everywhere,  and  about  pay  days,  held 
sway  in  certain  portions  of  the  town,  and  made  every 
thing  run  riot.  And  yet  there  were  not  nearly  so  many 
saloons  in  Effingham  as  there  might  have  been.  It  cost 
too  much  for  the  privilege.  At  three  thousand  dollars  a 
year,  only  about  one  hundred  fifty  saloons  were  in 
operation.  But  some  years  before,  while  the  state  was 
under  prohibition,  "tigers"  became  the  order.  And  now 
many  of  them  still  operated.  Especially  on  Sunday  and 
after  closing  hours,  they  were  busy.  They  dealt  in  a 
liquor  known,  in  general,  as  "busthead;"  and  to  say  that 
it  deserved  such  a  title,  is  saying  little  enough. 

It  was  Miss  Palmer,  who  became  at  once  a  personal 
friend  of  Wyeth's,  and  who  first  told  him  of  these  con 
ditions.  From  her,  before  he  had  time  to  observe  of  his 
own  initiative,  he  also  learned  a  great  deal  in  regard  to 
the  black  people. 

He  was  waiting  on  the  porch  for  her  when  she  returned 
late  that  afternoon,  in  fact,  it  was  night  when  she  arrived. 
She  was  tired,  but  cheerful  and  greatly  encouraged.  She 
had  secured  eleven  orders  for  his  book,  and  collected 
considerable  more  deposits  in  connection  therewith. 

"I  certainly  did  some  talking  to  those  Negroes  this 
afternoon,"  she  exclaimed,  drawing  herself  upon  the 
porch  when  she  arrived.  "I  talked  a  blue  streak;  and 
believe  me,  one  after  another  succumbed,"  she  boasted. 

"You  work  too  late,"  he  said,  with  a  note  of  kindness 
and  admiration  in  his  voice.  "I  do  not  usually  work  to 
exceed  six  hours  a  day,  and  quit  by  six  at  the  latest," 
he  added. 


"I  HAVE  BEEN  MARRIED,"  SAID  SHE     175 

"That's  the  trouble  with  Annie,"  said  her  cousin,  and 
a  teacher  also.  "She  has  so  much  ambition  when  she 
sees  herself  succeeding,  that  she  invariably  wears  herself 
out." 

"Have  you  met  my  roomers?"  Miss  Palmer  inquired. 
He  shook  his  head  and  waited,  while  she,  with  much 
ostentation,  introduced  them  one  by  one. 

"This  is  Mr.  Jones,  who  carries  mail  upon  a  rural 
route;  Mr.  Farrell  is  a  student  at  Tuskegee.  He  is 
spending  his  vacation  in  our  city.  And  you  have  been 
talking  with  my  cousin,  Miss  Black." 

Mr.  Farrell  was  a  small  creature,  so  black  in  the  dark 
ness  of  the  night,  that  only  a  gloomy  outline  of  his  features 
was  discernable,  while  his  white  eyes  reminded  Sidney 
as  he  winked  them,  of  a  pair  of  lightning  bugs  on  a  warm 
June  night.  This  was  augmented  by  the  occasional  flash 
of  his  white  teeth.  He  was  studying  architectural  draw 
ing.  There  was  another  student  from  the  same  school, 
a  West  Indian  Negro,  and  who,  like  his  kind,  was  always 
apparently  desirous  of  learning,  and  asked  Sidney  many 
questions.  Mr.  Jones,  who  happened  to  be  another 
cousin  of  Miss  Palmer,  and  the  aforementioned  mail 
carrier,  was  a  suave  creature  who  read  books,  and  dis 
coursed  with  much  practical  intelligence. 

The  following  morning,  Miss  Palmer  and  Sidney  were 
starting  toward  the  car,  on  their  way  to  canvass,  when 
they  stepped  in  a  small  drugstore  conducted  by  a  tall, 
slender  man,  of  about  thirty-five.  Wyeth  had  been  in 
the  store  two  evenings  before,  or  the  day  he  arrived, 
and  overheard  a  big  argument.  He  had  now  come  to 
know,  that  this  was  a  place  for  warm  debate,  with  the 
druggist  ever  conspicuous  as  one  of  the  debaters. 

He  had  not  displayed  his  book  there,  or  suggested  a 
sale  to  the  druggist.  There  were  certain  classes  of  his 
race  to  whom  he  never  made  a  practice  of  showing  the 
book  for  several  reasons.  The  first  and  most  significant 
of  these  reasons  was,  that  he  almost  always  found  the 
Negroes  who  were  engaged  professionally,  including 
teachers,  not  very  appreciative  of  the  work  of  their  race, 
although  any  of  them  would  have  been  insulted  if  this 


176  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

were  told  them.  He  had  also  made  observation  from 
other  sources,  concerning  the  possible  sale  of  his  book. 
His  decision  to  dispense  henceforth  with  showing  the 
book  to  certain  classes,  had  resulted,  because  of  a  little 
incident  the  year  before  in  Cincinnati.  He  had  observed 
the  same  in  other  cities  before  he  reached  Cincinnati. 
In  Dayton,  Indianapolis,  and  elsewhere;  but  in  Cin 
cinnati,  it  was  so  evident,  that  he  was,  in  a  way,  ashamed 
to  tell  it  afterwards.  This  is  what  occurred: 

The  colored  people  were  making  great  efforts  to  secure 
a  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  and  were,  when  he  left  the  city,  within 
fifteen  thousand  dollars  of  the  amount  they  were  required 
to  raise.  The  white  people  had  given  sixty  thousand. 
He  became  well  acquainted  with  the  secretary,  and  it 
was  from  him  that  he  learned,  without  inquiring,  that, 
of  twenty-nine  colored  teachers  who  were  receiving  a 
minimum  of  sixty  dollars  a  month,  twenty-one  had  not 
subscribed  one  dollar  toward  this  small  amount  the 
colored  people  were  strenuously  trying  to  raise.  And  of 
the  eight  who  had  subscribed,  five  had  grudgingly  given 
one  dollar  each.  The  secretary,  himself  a  former  teacher, 
admitted  this  with  great  humiliation. 

Wyeth  had  always  found  the  teachers  profuse  with 
excuses,  when  it  came  to  buying  the  book.  And  he  had 
found  the  doctors  little  better;  but,  to  avoid  what  he 
had  grown  to  expect,  and  which  he  invariably  met,  he 
had  decided  to  ignore  this  class  of  his  race.  He  did  not 
offer  criticism  upon  the  whole  teaching  staff,  because,  of 
the  three  teachers  out  of  twenty-nine  in  Cincinnati,  who 
had  actually  contributed  toward  the  colored  Y.  M.  C.  A., 
the  professor  had  shown  his  sincerity  and  race  apprecia 
tion,  by  subscribing  one  hundred  dollars,  and  had  paid  it. 

So  Sidney  Wyeth  would  never  have  shown  the  book  to 
the  druggist,  with  a  view  of  sale,  but  Miss  Palmer  did. 
In  her  insistent  manner,  she  urged  him  to  buy.  Now 
Wyeth,  as  was  his  custom,  always  went  to  the  leading 
book  store  in  each  town,  and  had  never  failed  to  sell 
them  a  few  books.  The  leading  store  in  Effingham  had 
purchased  ten  copies,  and  had  placed  an  advertisement 
of  ten  inch  space  in  the  colored  paper,  that  ran  for  a 


"I  HAVE  BEEN  MARRIED,"  SAID  SHE     177 

month,  and  which  the  druggist  had  seen.  So,  wlien  Miss 
Palmer  approached  him  insistently,  he  declared  that  he 
had  seen  the  book  advertised  at  that  store,  and,  as  was 
their  custom,  sometime  during  the  year  they  offered  all 
books  at  forty-nine  cents,  he  would,  if  he  wanted  the 
book,  purchase  it  then.  Of  course,  he  didn't  want  it, 
and  Wyeth  was  provoked  that  Miss  Palmer  had  even 
shown  it  to  him;  but  Miss  Palmer  had,  and,  upon  being 
told  of  these  conditions,  she  at  once  ceased  her  efforts. 

Of  course,  the  druggist  was  wrong,  and  Wyeth  knew  it; 
but  the  druggist  didn't.  He  wanted  to  bet — any  amount, 
that  he  was  right — that  one  of  the  biggest  booksellers  in 
the  southland,  offered  all  books,  regardless  of  "best 
sellers/'  sometime  during  the  year  at  forty-nine  cents  a 
copy.  It  cost  the  druggist  two  dollars  to  learn  that  he 
could  be  wrong,  or  mistaken  at  least,  even  if  he  had 
been  to  school  and  graduated  from  college,  which,  in  the 
minds  of  his  august  contemporaries,  meant  that  he  knew 
everything. 

It  was  Miss  Palmer  who  advised  Sidney  that  Dr. 
Randall,  for  druggists  were  called  doctors  also,  among  these 
people,  had  been  to  school  and  graduated  from  college.  .  .  . 
And  Miss  Palmer  was  much  chagrined  that  Wyeth  had 
acted  so  hastily.  .  .  .  For  times  were  hard  and  two  dollars 
was  something.  ...  If  he  had  caught  her  eye  when  she 
tried  so  hard  to  get  his,  she  would  have  gotten  him  out 
side  for  a  minute,  one  little  minute,  and  then  she  would 
have  told  him  who  the  other  was.  .  .  .  She  was  almost  in 
tears  as  she  remonstrated  with  him  for  his  hasty  act.  .  .  . 
Miss  Palmer  was  sincere  and  meant  it,  because,  for  some 
reason,  she  was  unable  as  yet  to  account;  she  really 
liked  Mr.  Wyeth.  "He  has  such  eyes,"  she  told  her 
cousin  when  she  returned,  while  the  bet  was  being  settled. 

"Well,  we  have  lost  two  hours,  so  we  will  have  to  get 
a  move  on  us  now,  to  make  up  for  lost  time.  Of  course," 
he  said  cheerfully,  "I've  made  two  dollars,  which  is  as 
much,  maybe  more,  than  we  would  have  made  in  the 
meantime  - 

"You  did  what!"    Miss  Palmer  was  amazed. 


12 


178  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

It  was  some  time  before  she  could  be  brought  to 
believe  it. 

"We  will  go  to  a  different  part  of  the  quarter  today," 
she  said  after  a  time.  Wyeth  looked  at  her.  Miss  Palmer 
was  very  kind.  And  Sidney  Wyeth  longed  for  kindness. 
When  he  saw  Miss  Palmer  as  she  was  that  day,  he  felt 
something  amiss  in  his  heart.  She  had  said  nothing 
today;  whereas,  yesterday  she  had  acted,  he  thought, 
boldly. 

The  car  now  seemed  to  be  flying  through  space.  It 
roared  like  a  mad  thing,  and  filled  him  with  a  peculiar 
feeling;  exhiliration  overwhelmed  him.  For  one  moment 
he  forgot  everything,  and  he  felt  a  burning  desire  to 
touch  the  woman.  At  his  side  sat  Miss  Palmer.  She 
had  been  kind  to  him,  even  though  he  had  known  her 
almost  no  time.  And  then  suddenly  his  hand  found  hers, 
and,  closing  over  it  one  moment,  he  crushed  it.  A 
moment  later  the  impulse  had  passed. 

The  powerful  car  thundered  on  its  way. 

Miss  Palmer  worked  hard  that  day.  All  the  hours 
through,  she  talked  and  talked.  She  simply  made  those 
black  people  buy.  "The  story  of  a  young  man,  a  young 
man  of  our  race,  who  had  the  strength  and  courage  of  a 
pioneer,  went  alone  into  the  wilds  of  the  great  northwest, 
and  there  made  conquest.  Think  of  that  as  an  example, 
and  incentive  to  effort  for  your  children!"  They  nodded 
and  joined  her  in  seriousness,  though  they  knew  not  what 
it  all  meant;  but  they  did  feel  the  strength  of  her  eyes, 
and  the  insistence  held  them. 

Wyeth  suggested  the  route. 

She  offered  no  objection.  Whither  he  suggested,  she 
followed  meekly,  almost  subserviently.  And  always,  she 
sought,  whenever  she  could  get  his  attention,  his  eyes, 
and  into  them  she  looked  for  something;  but  it  was  ever 
something  unfathomable  she  saw  therein.  But  the  more 
she  was  unable  to  fathom  those  depths,  the  more  her 
eagerness  to  do  so  became  apparent. 

She  talked  of  her  work  as  a  teacher,  she  told  him  then 
of  her  ambition,  and  herghopes;fbut  Miss  Palmer,  withal 
she  felt  that  day,  could  not,  somehow,  impart  the  secret 


"I  HAVE  BEEN  MARRIED,"  SAID  SHE     179 

of  her  great  ambition.  Vainly  she  tried,  in  her  most 
artful  way,  to  have  him  tell  her  something — something 
of  himself. 

But  he  never  did.  That  made  it  harder  for  Miss 
Palmer,  for  soon,  she  felt,  she  just  had  to  know. 

"Over  there,"  said  she,  pointing  to  a  row  of  new- 
houses,  uniform  in  splendor,  "are  homes  that  are  beauti 
ful  and  still  economical.  It  is  my  intention  to  begin  the 
purchase  of  one  of  them  next  year.  All  the  people  living 
there  in  those  houses  are  personal  acquaintances  of 
mine  and  friends.  And,  as  you  will  observe,  there  is  a 
school  just  around  the  corner,  which  adds  greatly  to  the 
value  of  the  property.  I  want  also  to  buy  another  home 
in  that  neighborhood,  as  soon  as  I  have  the  first  one  well 
under  payment,  and  so  have  it  paid  for  by  the  time  my 
boy  becomes  of  age." 

"Your  boy!" 

"Yes,"  she  admitted,  with  a  tired,  hard  smile. 

"Oh.  .  .  ." 

"I  have  been  married." 

"Oh.  .  .  ." 

"But  am  now  a  widow." 

"Oh.  .  .  ." 

"But  not  by  death." 

"Oh.  .  .  ." 

"No;  he  is  not  dead — at  least  he  wasn't  a  month  ago." 
She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  went  on  now  somewhat 
doggedly.  "I  am  a  grass  widow,  and  you  know  what 
that  means.  ..." 

He  made  no  answer;  but  she  knew  he  heard  her,  and 
was  listening.  She  went  on  as  only  an  unsuccessful  and 
unhappy  woman  could.  "Yes,  when  a  woman  marries  a 
man  that  she  loves,  and  gives  to  him  the  best  that's  in 
her,  and,  after  years,  is  forced  to  give  up  the  fight,  her 
very  heart,  for  a  piece  of  paper  marked  'divorce/  she  is 
never  the  same  woman  she  was,  and  might  have  con 
tinued  to  be.  There  are  those  who  say:  'Oh,  I  don't 
care;'  but  I'm  going  to  tell  you,  they  do.  The  woman 
lives  on  apparently  gay,  but  her  heart  is  dead  within 
her."  For  a  long  time  now,  there  was  silence.  Presently, 
she  spoke  again. 


180  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"  I  am  living  entirely  now  for  my  little  boy.  He  is  all 
I  have,  and  I  am  willing,  I  feel,  to  slave  until  the  skin 
falls  from  my  fingers,  that  he  may  have  his  chance.  I  am 
planning  to  graduate  him  as  early  as  possible,  and  place 
him  in  a  good  northern  school  in  the  study  of  medicine." 

Again  Sidney  Wyeth  felt  a  peculiarity  about  his  heart. 
His  thoughts  went  back  into  yesterdays,  and  he  recalled 
all  that  he  had  lived  and  hoped  for,  and  then  for  one 
brief  moment,  another  stood  before  him.  Miss  Palmer 
was  talking,  but  her  voice  seemed  to  come  from  far  away. 
Presently  she  touched  him.  He  looked  up  and  she  saw 
the  something  in  his  eyes,  and  suddenly  all  she  had  been 
feeling  passed,  as  she  now  observed  him  closely.  Her 
lips  parted.  They  started  to  say:  "You  strange  man. 
You've  had  your  troubles  too."  And  then  something  else 
seemed  to  say:  "But  you're  game,  oh  you're  game. 
You've  lived  a  bitter  pill,  a  very  bitter  pill.  Look  into 
those  eyes;  study  them,  and  if  you  have  suffered,  and 
by  that  suffering  you  have  learned,  you  can  read  that  a 
secret  lurks  therein;  you  say  nothing,  but  you  feel, 
nevertheless."  What  Miss  Palmer  did  say  when  her  lips 
spoke  was:  "We'd  better  be  going,  Mr.  Wyeth.  It's 
getting  late.  Hear  the  whistle  of  the  furnace,  and  across 
from  that  we  hear  another.  That  belongs  to  the  Semet 
Solvay;  but  they  both  are  right.  It's  one  o'clock  and 
thirty  minutes.  Time  to  canvass;  we  must  go."  Her 
voice  was  kinder  now  than  ever. 

They  went. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

"Bidder  Stuck  Up  ah  She's  a  Witch" 

They  now  passed  between  two  large  industrial  plants 
of  the  Tennessee  Coal  and  Iron  Company.  To  the  left, 
roaring  mightily,  was  one  of  the  many  blast  furnaces, 
where  the  pig  iron  was  made  from  the  crude  ore.  In 
numerable  small  cars,  upon  which  sat  huge  ladles,  whirled 
to  and  fro.  Backward  and  forward  they  were  pulled,  out 
of  the  great  shed,  where  they  received  their  supply  of 
molten  matter  from  the  largest  cupolas  in  existence. 
Everywhere  the  white  heat  flashed.  Hundreds  and 
thousands  of  men,  black  and  white  (although  as  they 
were  now  seen,  they  were  all  black),  worked  away. 
System  was  everywhere  evident.  The  cars,  with  their 
loads  of  molten  heat,  moved  with  systematic  regularity, 
while  each  and  every  man  seemed  to  know  and  fill  a 
certain  place.  Only  a  little  carelessness,  a  little  disregard 
for  established  rules  and  regulation,  would  lead  to  death, 
of  one  to  a  score  of  men. 

To  the  right  of  them,  filling  the  hot  summer  air  with 
sulphuric  and  gaseous  fumes,  the  plant  of  the  Semet 
Solvay  Company  was  visible  in  all  its  activity.  It  rose 
grim  and  forbidding,  with  intense  heat,  and  stretched 
back  for  a  mile,  seemingly,  from  where  they  passed. 
Even  the  dirt  upon  which  they  walked,  as  they  went 
into  the  quarters  between  the  plants,  was  hot  and  dead. 
No  grass  was  to  be  seen.  A  sickly  little  short  weed 
struggled  for  existence  in  this  medley  of  industry. 

And  now,  before  them  rose  a  hill,  at  the  top  of  which 
were  the  quarters.  High  above  the  factories,  as  though 
seeking  the  air,  and  as  if  to  be  as  much  as  possible  free 
from  the  sulphuric  fumes  that  at  times  almost  stifled 
one,  these  houses  stood,  dirty,  grim  and  forbidding. 


181 


182  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

They  rose  sinister-like  in  the  dull  sunlight,  and  fell  back 
beyond  as  they  approached. 

When  the  two  had  reached  the  summit  and  viewed  the 
place  closer,  Sidney  was,  for  a  time,  awed  by  the  sight. 
Row  after  row  of  little  red  or  brown,  shell-like  homes 
they  were.  With  a  thin  board  porch,  they  made  little 
resistance  against  the  intense  heat,  for  it  seemed  hotter 
here  than  elsewhere. 

At  this  hour,  the  inmates  could  be  seen  spread  about 
on  these  little  porches,  if  it  happened  to  be  on  the  shady 
side;  or  else,  they  could  be  seen  in  the  houses,  and  some 
were  even  beneath  them,  anywhere  they  could  find  a 
spot  that  would  permit  of  a  little  rest;  for,  from  one  to 
three  weeks  they  must  work  at  nights,  twelve,  thirteen 
and  fourteen  long  hours.  The  furnace  cupolas  had  not 
been  cool,  in  many  instances,  since  they  were  erected, 
and  only  two  shifts  were  employed.  They  were  pre 
dominantly  black  people. 

Only  here  and  there  was  a  mulatto  to  be  seen.  Little 
children  filled  the  grimy  streets,  that  are  made  to  stink 
fearfully  from  the  slag  used  in  the  paving.  And  now,  as 
the  sun  beats  down,  it  was  soft  and  stuck  to  the  shoes, 
much  to  the  provocation  of  the  walker.  Notwithstanding 
the  apparent  lack  of  comfort,  evident  everywhere  in  this 
little ;  village  of  workers,  these  little  black  children,  with 
an  occasional  Italian,  seemed  as  cheerful  and  happy  and 
gay,  as  those  of  the  aristocrats  of  the  South  Highlands. 
They  played  busily,  while  their  little  faces,  tanned  by 
the  heat,  were  full  of  joy.  They  were  as  courteous — more 
so  than  one  would  expect  under  the  circumstances. 

When  Sidney  Wyeth  inquired,  he  learned  that  the 
T.  C.  I.  company  maintains  and  pays  the  teachers  well 
in  the  schools  for  the  education  of  these  masses  of  little, 
growing  human  beings.  Unfortunately,  so  torn  and  frit 
tered  by  race  law  legislation,  the  city  and  the  county  and 
the  state  are  far  in  arrears  financially,  and,  were  it  left  to 
those  bodies,  these  little  children  would  not  all,  by  any 
means,  learn  the  art  of  reading  and  writing;  for,  with  all 
our  boast  as  the  greatest  nation  of  civilized  people,  there 
is  no  law  here,  that  compels  the  parent,  guardian  and 


BIDDER  STUCK  UP  AH  SHE'S  A  WITCH     183 

what  more,  to  send  these  children  to  school.  Which,  per 
haps,  accounts  for  the  fact  that  forty  per  cent  of  the 
black  population  are  illiterate,  and  almost  as  large  a 
per  cent  of  the  whites. 

They  walked  along  together  in  silence,  Miss  Annie 
Palmer  and  Sidney  Wyeth.  This  silence  was  inter 
rupted  only  when  they  drew  near  one  or  a  number  of 
these  little  human  beings,  who  smiled  upon  them,  and 
made  eyes  back  at  Sidney,  who  winked  humorously,  and 
then  made  them  all  happy  with  a  few  pennies,  for  he 
loved  children.  They  passed  through  this  mass,  which 
our  pen  has  attempted  to  describe,  and  found  themselves 
soon  in  a  part  given  over  to  nature.  Trees  had  made  a 
brave  fight  for  the  right  to  exist  against  poisonous  gases, 
and  some  had  succeeded,  in  a  measure;  while  garden 
truck,  closer  to  its  mother  earth,  had  apparently  succeeded 
to  a  still  greater  degree.  Fences  were  in  evidence;  pride 
as  well.  The  children  were  cleaner;  the  houses  were  not 
quarter-shacks  any  more;  but  commodious,  even  large 
homes,  and  were  occupied  by  a  class,  while  workers, 
nevertheless  they  had  employed  their  earnings  otherwise 
than  for  liquor  and  dice,  and  other  frivolities,  the  curse 
that  submerges  the  more  ignorant  and  prideless.  They 
were  a  kind  people,  these  were,  and  when  approached 
with  a  suggestion  of  literature,  they  smiled  and  replied: 
"We  are  fond  of  reading." 

Thus  Miss  Palmer  and  Sidney  Wyeth  began  work  that 
day,  and  until  the  sun  was  hurrying  toward  the  west, 
they  talked  and  said  words  of  kind  sincerity  to  the  many 
they  met,  for  these  people  deserved -it.  What  was  more 
important,  some  made  effort  toward  their  betterment. 
These  were  few  in  number.  For  this  reason,  such  kind 
words  of  encouragement — ay,  very  often  praise,  was 
necessary. 

So,  one  by  one  they  subscribed,  and  hoped  for  the  book 
sodn,  until  their  orders  were  many.  The  evening  had 
approached  until  the  hour  was  near  six,  when  they  came 
upon  another,  a  black  woman  truly,  but  pride,  apparently, 
she  had  plenty.  While  not  the  finest,  in  point  of  value, 
her  house  was  one  of  the  cosiest.  It  was  painted  in  two 


184  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

colors,  and  reposed  quietly  behind  a  medley  of  small 
trees,  around  which  was  a  fair  stand  of  blue  grass.  The 
lace  curtains,  all  clean  and  white,  contrasted  beautifully 
behind  and  below  the  pale  green  shades,  while  within  the 
furniture  was  artistically  arranged. 

They  were  invited  in,  and  made  most  welcome.  "Yes," 
said  the  black  woman,  "I  am  fond,  very  fond  of  good 
books,  and  when  it  comes  to  one  which  my  race  has 
produced,  I  want  it,  for  such  are  few.  So  you  may  take 
my  name,  and  bring  the  book  as  soon  as  you  can." 

They  thanked  her  profusely,  and  spoke,  as  they  had 
spoken  many  times  that  day,  kind  words  of  encourage 
ment  and  praise;  She  appreciated  it. 

Yet  some  said  of  this  woman,  before  the  two  made  this 
call: 

"She's  a  mean  nigger,  and  you'll  neveh  be  Vited  in  da' 
house!  Um-m!  She  has  no  'commadation  'bout  her, 
and  she's  eidder  stuck  up,  ah  she's  a  witch!"  Where 
upon  they  shook  their  black  heads,  and  went  their  way 
with  a  mutter. 

But  'ere  long  another — and  he  was  himself  a  practical 
and  successful  man — said:  "She's  0.  K.,  a  fine  woman; 
but  she  runs  a  grocery  store  while  her  husband  digs  coal, 
and,  well,  she  doesn't  credit  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry." 
And  then  Wyeth  and  his  companion  understood. 

The  day's  work  was  done  at  last,  and  they  were  hurry 
ing  back  to  town.  They  were  tired,  both  mentally  and 
physically,  but  their  spirits  were  high.  They  were,  more 
over,  grateful,  and  seemed,  to  a  great  degree,  to  under 
stand  each  other.  Their  friendship  has  reached  the  stage 
at  which  they  could  indulge  in  confidences,  Miss  Palmer 
especially.  She  regarded  Wyeth,  out  of  her  liquid  eyes, 
and  smiled  kindly,  confidentially.  "I'm  glad  I  took  up 
the  work — now." 

She  smiled  with  more  confidence  than  before.  "Yes; 
I  am,  really.  I  have  enjoyed  it."  And  still  she  smiled. 
He  did  too.  She  smiled  back,  and  then,  in  a  voice  that 
was  so  soft,  and  kind,  and  confidential,  she  said:  "You 
wrote  it,  didn't  you?" 


BIDDER  STUCK  UP  OR  SHE'S  A  WITCH    185 

He  heard  the  car  as  it  crashed  along  through  the  night, 
for  the  sun  had  set  long  ago.  The  trees,  for  they  were 
passing  through  the  forest,  flashed  darkly  through  the 
electric  lighted  car,  and  Miss  Palmer  waited.  He  did  not 
reply.  After  a  time — shall  we  say  minutes — she  sought 
his  eye.  She  was  languid,  and  resigned  to  a  degree.  "If 
you  would  only  admit  that  which  I  am  positive  is  true, 
it  would  be  so  nice.  I  would  truly  be  satisfied." 

"What  matter  could  it  make?"  and  then  he  stopped. 
She  might  be  more  interesting  curious  than  otherwise.  .  .  . 
He  remained  silent. 

"Oh,  why  do  you  maintain  this  silence  regarding  the 
authorship?"  she  fretted,  moving  restlessly  about. 

"Cannot  we  go  along  and  sell  it — that,  in  particular, 
is  all  that  matters,  isn't  it?"  He  tried  to  be  reasonable. 
"You  will,  as  you  must  now  see,"  he  argued,  "only  need 
to  go  to  the  industrial  people,  and  success  will  be  yours." 
She  was  oblivious  to  all  this.  He  resumed,  somewhat  un 
certainly: 

"  If  many  people — especially  those  in  the  class  to  which 
I  feel  you  belong — knew  or  thought  that  I  am  the  author 
of  this  book,  their  possible  interest  might  become  doubt 
ful;  whereas,  with  no  thought  than  the  ordinary — that  is 
the  usual  fetish — they  might,  after  reading  it,  be  much  im 
pressed  with  its  message.  Don't  you  agree  with  me?" 
He  wanted  to  be  reasonable,  but  Miss  Palmer  was  silent. 

She  was  still  so  when  they  left  the  car  some  minutes 
later.  When  they  had  reached  the  curbing  and  stepped 
upon  the  walk,  they  saw  Hatfield.  He  had  his  suit  case 
and  was  in  somewhat  of  a  hurry,  from  the  strides  he  was 
making. 

"Where  is  he  going,  home?"   inquired  Miss  Palmer. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  the  other,  "but  I  wouldn't 
think  so  at  least.  He  never  said  anything  to  me  in  regard 
to  it,  when  I  left  him  this  morning."  Yet  so  he  was, 
though  he  never  said  so,  when  they  met  him  and  ex 
changed  a  few  words. 

"I'm  going  to  a  friend's  house,"  and  he  gave  Wyeth  a 
number.  They  told  him  of  their  success,  whereupon  he 
secured  a  dollar,  and  that  was  the  last  time  they  saw 


186  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

him.    He  went  back  with  the  same  porter  they  had  come 
over  with. 

It  was  Legs  who  informed  Sidney  that  young  Hatfield 
was  going  back  to  Attalia.  Legs  was  having  some  ex 
periences  of  his  own.  Before  he  related  them  to  Wyeth, 
he  inquired:  . 

"Well,  Books,  how  goes  it?"  He  was  cheerful  as 
usual — in  fact  Legs  was  always  cheerful — with  one  ex 
ception,  which  we  shall  cite  presently. 

"Fine,  Legs,"  Wyeth  beamed.  "Couldn't  be  better, 
which  is  saying  a  great  deal.  How's  things  with  you?" 

"Could  be  a  whole  lot  better,"  he  laughed,  with  dancing 
eyes;  "but  they  have  been  worse.  I've  been  busy 
though.  Working  right  along.  Got  me  a  gal  now,  and 
won  a  little  change  today  that  I  might  lose  tonight." 

He  did — and  more.  He  lost  all  he  had,  borrowed  a 
quarter  from  Wyeth,  wanted  a  dollar,  but  Wyeth  halted 
him,  advising  that  he  loaned  only  to  purchase  the  means 
to  fill  his  stomach,  and  then  only  when  it  was  begging 
for  bread. 

After  this,  and  for  some  time  to  come,  Legs'  fortune 
varied  from  near  prosperity,  to  going  for  a  whole  day 
without  anything  to  eat.  And  at  these  times,  he  dispensed 
with  his  usual  cheerfulness. 

One  day,  he  pawned  his  meagre  jewelry  for  all  he  could 
obtain  thereon,  which  amounted  to  only  a  dollar  and  a 
half.  He  ate  a  big  meal  at  a  cheap  restaurant,  got  his 
shirts  from  the  laundry,  paid  fifty  cents  on  his  room  rent, 
and  went  with  the  remainder  to  a  game.  Luck  was  with 
him,  as  it  is  with  all,  once  in  a  while.  True,  it  was  only 
in  a  small  measure,  but  he  had  sufficient  to  finish  paying 
his  rent,  bought  a  cold  lunch  that  he  sensibly  tucked 
away  for  future  purposes,  and  went  to  bed  with  a  dollar 
in  his  pocket. 

Sleeping  peacefully  at  two  A.  M.,  he  was  awakened  by 
John  Moore,  the  man  of  the  house,  who  told  him — Sidney 
heard  this — of  a  great  game  close  by,  and  where  hun 
dreds  were  at  stake.  So  Legs  got  up,  not  too  cheer 
fully,  from  his  comfortable  bed  and  peaceful  sleep, 


BIDDER  STUCK  UP  OR  SHE'S  A  WITCH    187 

dressed,  and  a  moment  later,  followed  Moore  out  into 
the  night,  and  to  fortune.  (?) 

He  came  back  in  about  an  hour.  He  was  drunk  and 
broke,  angry  with  himself,  and  more  so  with  John  Moore. 

"Damn  that  nigger!"  he  cried  terribly,  when  alone 
with  Wyeth.  "Damn  him,  damn  him,  d-a-m-n  him! 
Came  in  here  and  got  me  out  of  bed,"  he  roared,  brand 
ishing  his  long  arms.  "When  I  was  sleeping  the  sleep  of 
peace.  'Nigga's  gotta  big  game  on;  all  kinds  a-money. 
Fn  beat  'm,  know  I  c'n/  And  then  like  a  fool,"  and  here 
he  looked  down  at  himself,  as  if  to  see  which  would  be 
the  best  part  to  kick,  "I  up  and  goes  with  him.  Of 
course,  he  must  have  a  drink  for  himself;  so  a  quarter 
first  went  to  'get  him  right/  And  then  to  the  game. 
No  sooner  had  we  arrived  than  'slip  me  a  haf,'  said  he, 
and  like  a  damn  fool  I  did.  He  bet  a  quarter  that  a 
dinge  who  held  the  craps  wouldn't  hit,  and  lost.  He 
repeated — and  lost  again.  He  wanted  the  last  quarter, 
declaring  his  luck  would  begin  with  it;  but  I  forestalled 
him  and  got  the  craps  myself  and  threw  them  dancing, 
clear  across  the  table,  and  they  turned  up,"  Wyeth 
waited  eagerly,  " — craps!" 

"Doggone  that  nigga!  'f  he  comes  around  me  again, 
I'm  going  to  shoot  him  in  the  head — right  through  the 
middle  of  the  head!"  And  with  this  solemn  declaration, 
he  went  forthwith  back  to  bed.  He  slept  peacefully,  and 
awakened  the  following  morning,  hungry  and  madder  than 
ever,  as  the  fact  dawned  upon  him.  Wyeth  loaned  him 
a  quarter,  and  gave  him  some  good  advice. 

"Quit  it!  Get  a  job!  Work!  Honest  work!  Come  to 
the  room  with  a  book,  read  and  thereby  learn  something 
and  save  your  money!" 

"I  will,  so  help  me  God!"  declared  the  other,  feeling 
repentant  all  the  way  through. 

"And  remember — in  speaking  of  the  God — he  helps 
those  who  help  themselves." 

"My  father  was  a  preacher!" 

Wyeth  made  no  further  comment;  but  Legs  was  a 
good  rustler.  He  did  better — for  a  while.  He  looked 
the  town  from  end  to  end  for  the  kind  of  work  he  followed, 


188  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

but  without  success.  So  it  continued,  day  after  day,  his 
great  problem  was  to  get  something  to  fill  that  stomach, 
which  was  now  flabby,  very  much  so  at  times.  He 
managed,  by  diligent  application,  to  drop  something  into 
it  once  and  sometimes  twice  a  day,  and  one  night  he 
came  to  the  room  with  an  exclamation,  that  he  had 
eaten  three  times  that  day,  and  had  a  dime  left  in  his 
pocket.  He  drew  this  forth,  balanced  it  on  the  tip  of  his 
forefinger,  observed  it  long  and  earnestly,  and  then  said: 
"Little  one,  we  are  friends,  it's  true,  but  such  we  can 
not  possibly  remain;  for  tomorrow  you  will  have  to  go 
the  way  of  the  rest,"  whereupon  he  touched  his  stomach 
with  the  forefinger  of  his  other  hand.  "So,  tonight,  on 
a  pilgrimage  of  fortune  we  must  go,  you  and  I.  It's 
more  or  less — possibly  nothing.  So,  to  the  first  crap 
game  I  take  thee.  And  once  there  in  the  glare,  I  shall 
risk  you  against  the  rest.  Therefore,  little  one,  prepare 
thyself,  for  soon  I  shall  bet  thee,  understand,  in  the  first 
crap  game  I  come  to,  a  nickel  at  a  time." 

He  did — and  won.  He  continued  then  for  some  time 
to  win  and  win,  and  resumed  all  the  cheerfulness  he  once 
possessed.  His  winnings  continued  until  he  had  redeemed 
his  jewelry,  paid  a  week's  room  rent  in  advance,  was 
clean,  and  seven  dollars  to  the  good  over  all.  Then  it 
began  to  go  the  other  way.  He  quit,  however,  and  de 
posited  five  dollars  with  his  friend  Wyeth. 

"I'm  doing  this,"  said  he,  "because  these  roomers, 
who  shoot  craps  too,  would  not  allow  me  to  be  otherwise 
than  broke."  Thus  the  fortune  of  Legs  took  a  turn  for 
the  good,  for  one  day.  The  next  night  he  went  broke. 
Thus  we  will  leave  him  for  the  present,  and  return  to 
Sidney  Wyeth  and  Miss  Annie  Palmer,  who  sold  books. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

"A  Bigger  Liah  They  Ain't  in  Town" 

John  Smith  was  a  large  man,  fat,  and  big-hearted  as 
well,  so  Wyeth  had  been  told  previously.  Sidney  met 
both  Smith  and  his  wife,  and  she  was  larger  still.  She, 
too,  was  a  good,  kind  woman,  with  a  multitude  of  friends 
whom  they  had  made  by  kindness  to  others.  She  was  a 
full  blood,  while  he  was  not  more  than  half.  Together 
they  would  weigh  to  exceed  five  hundred  pounds.  And, 
of  course,  he  was  a  preacher. 

Said  he,  when  he  had  heard  the  story  of  The  Tempest: 
"Yes,  I'll  take  one — no,  you  may  put  me  down  for  two." 
And  then  he  seated  himself  with  as  much  comfort  as  was 
possible  upon  the  greasy  counter,  for  John  Smith  was  a 
successful  merchant,  who  made  his  living  by  the  sale  of 
necessities,  to  a  multitude  of  his  clan,  who  were  employed 
by  the  Semet  Solvay  Company.  As  he  made  the  above 
remark,  he  was  ready,  as  we  can  see,  for  a  long  con 
versation. 

"Been  takin'  many  odah's?"   he  inquired. 

"Oh,  lots  of  them,"  the  other  replied,  cheerfully. 

"M-m.     Who  all  yu'  got  in  that  list?"    he  went  on. 

The  other  shoved  it  before  him. 

"M-m,"  said  he,  running  his  eyes  over  the  order  list. 
"See  yu'  have  Lem  Jackson  down  he'  fo'  one." 

"Yes,"  said  the  other;  "seems  to  be  quite  a  fine 
fellow,"  he  commented. 

"M-m;  but  a  bigger  liah  they  ain't  in  town."  He 
was  not  much  excited  by  the  statement,  and  went  on 
calmly:  "He's  fine  all  right,  though — to  drink  whiskey. 
M-m.  Fight  'n'  steal,  and  lay  around  dnmk,  and  go 
regularly  to  jail,  and  likewise  have  somebody  pay  him 
out.  I  have  done  so  myself,  a  few  times,  's  why  I  happen 
t'  know.  M-m.  Two  times  in  succession  I  have  done 

189 


190  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

that  in  the  last  thirty  days.  M-m;  but  the  next  time 
he  gets  his  black  hide  in  there,  in  so  fo'  's  I'm  concerned, 
he  c'n  stay.  Yeh,  'n'  'twouldn't  'sprise  me  'f  the  officers 
didn'  come  rid'n  up  at  any  time  fo'  'im,  'cause  'es  been 
actin'  mighty  suspicious  the  last  few  days.  I'n  bet  he's 
been  hit'  somethin'." 

"Heah!  Heah!  he  cried,  jumping  from  the  counter 
and  hurrying  to  the  platform  in  front,  "what'n  the  devil 
you  all  makin'  all  this  he'  noise  'bout!" 

"0-oh,  uncle,"  cried  a  little  one,  grasping  his  trousers 
and  looking  up,  "the  p'lice  uz  jes'  gone  ova  the  hill  wi' 
Lem  Jsfckson.  Dey  has  'rested  'im  fo'  stealin'  coppa 
wiah." 

Sadly,  Wyeth  drew  his  pencil  through  a  name  he  had 
written  not  an  hour  before. 

"I'm  glad  to  get  your  opinion  concerning  these,  Elder," 
he  said  gratefully.  "The  ones  we  have  had  down  here 
have  been  pretty  good,  and  I  don't  wish  to  be  cherishing 
expectations  that  are  not  likely  to  be  realized.  So  tell 
me,  if  you  don't  mind,  who  can  be  relied  on." 

"Aw,  I  do'n  mind,"  he  rumbled;  "  'cause  them  that's 
all  right  is  all  right;  and  them  that  ain't,  ain't.  Sowhat- 
eve'  I  tell  you  's  all  the  same  in  the  end,  exceptin'  you 
won't  need  t'  build  on  them  that  ain't. 

"These  people  who  had  oh'd,  'n'  took  the'  books  so 
readily,  'n'  did'n'  haf  t'  wait  fo'  pay  day,  ah,  among  the 
good  people  we  got  out  he',  that's  the  reason."  He  took 
the  paper  from  Wyeth's  hand,  and,  pointing  out  the 
names,  he  began: 

"He's  Joe  Sim's  now,  I  see  you  have,  's  as  good  as  gold. 
You  c'n  count  that  book  delivered;  also  I  see  you  have 
Tom  Hutchis,  'n'  'es  0.  K.  Jerry  Carter  is  also;  but 
here's  Joe  Tuttle,  outside-a  Lem  Jackson,  a  bigger  liah, 
gambler — tin  horn  gambler,  never  lived;  'n'  he  caint 
read,  why  has  he  subscribed  fo'  the  book?"  The  other 
looked  at  the  name,  and  then  said: 

"I  think  Miss  Palmer  took  that  order." 

"Aw,  that's  it.  He's  chivalrous,  all  right,  and  would 
be  gallant  enought  to  subscribe  to  anything  a  woman's 
carrying  around;  but  he  won't  be  man  'nough  t'  take 


A  BIGGER  LIAH  THEY  AIN'T  IN  TOWN    191 

it,  'n'  he  knows  it."  At  this  point  he  laid  the  list  down, 
stuck  his  big  stomach  forward,  rested  his  hands  there 
upon,  and  with  his  finger  to  emphasize,  he  forthwith 
gave  Wyeth  a  lecture  on  Negroology. 

"I  been  runnin'  this  sto'  heah  fo'  thoiteen  yeahs,  'n' 
lemme  tell  y',  brother,  I  know  these  nigga's  fo'  what 
they  is."  He  paused  a  moment,  and  surveyed  the  list 
again,  critically.  Then,  laying  it  down,  said:  "Jump  up 
on  the  counter  and  rest  yo'se'f,  I  gotta  story  t'  tell  yu'." 
Wyeth  obeyed,  and  John  Smith  began. 

"I  was  run  outta  Geo'gi',  'n'  I  ain'  'shame  to  admit  it; 
but  notwithstandin'  the  fact,  'twas  a  mistake  'n'  aftwa'd 
the  whi'  people  found  it  out  'n'  was  sorry,  'n'  wanted  me 
t'  return.  That,  however,  was  afta  I  was  ove'  he'  'n' 
doin'  business,  'n'  mo'  bus'ness  than  I  had  eve'  done 
befo'.  So  I  jes'  thanked  them  fo'  admittin'  to  the  mis 
take,  'n'  stay's  he'.  Well,  's  I  was  sayin',  I  came  ove' 
he'  'n'  sta'ted  a  sto'.  I  had  owned  a  big  fa'm  back  the' 
in  Geo'gi',  'n'  I  received  $10,000  fo'  it  'n'  put's  most  uv 
it  in  th'  sto'  'n'  trusted  cullud  people.  In  three  ye's  I's 
broke — flat  broke.  Did'n'  have  nothin'  but  my  credit. 
I  had  opened  that  sto'  wi'  the  finest  stock  of  eve'thing: 
Clothing,  boots  'n'  shoes,  groceries  'n'  hardware,  'n'  's 
I  said,  trusted  my  people. 

"Now  a  nigga,  with  rare  exceptions,  will  not  pay  'n' 
hones'  debt,  oh,  no!  He'll  lie,  'n'  lie,  'n'  lie!  T'  make  a 
long  story  sho't,  they  lied  me  outta  bus'ness.  So  I 
broke,  but  wi'  plenty  sense,  I  sta'ted  all  ove'  agin,  wi' 
the  help  of  the  Lawd  'n'  the  whi'  people,  what  knowed 
I  was  hones'  'n'  ambitious. 

"That  was  ten  yeah's  ago.  Seven  ye's  ago  I  made  a 
'rangement  wi'  the  Semet  Solvay  Company  t'  give  these 
da'kies  credit,  and  th'  company  has  since  then,  held  the 
amount  from  the'  pay  envelope.  From  then  on  I  began 
to  climb,  but  I  had  a  drawback  that  was  like  a  tick  in 
my  shirt,  but  I'll  git  t'  that  later.  Now  nobody  c'n  say 
I  gets  my  money  by  holding  up  these  nigga's,  either; 
fo'  I  gives  's  much  'n'  mo'  fo'  th'  money  than  does  the 
average  sto'  keeper  'bout  he'. 

"And  so,  with  the  help  a  th'  Lawd,  and  a  good  wife, 


192  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

I  have  now  twenty-nine  houses  'n'  lots,  'n'  a  little  money 
besides.  And  he'  comes  the  drawback  I  sta'ted  t'  speak 
uv.  Eve'  week  that  comes  ove'  my  head.  I  mus*  spend 
good  money  t'  get  some  a  these  low-down  big  mouth 
nigga's  outta  jail.  Last  ye',  'n'  you  wouldn't  b'lieve  it, 
but  I  spent  nine  hund'd  dollahs  a-gettin'  nigga's  outta 
jail,  'n'  this  ye'  promises  t'  exceed  that." 

"But  why  will  you  pay  their  fines?"  exclaimed  the 
other.  "Why  don't  you  let  the  skunks  stay  and  work 
it  out?" 

"That's  it!  That's  it!"  he  exclaimed,  moving  about 
on  the  counter.  "I  swear  at  the  end  of  each  ye'  that  I 
ain'  go'n  pay  another  fine,  but  they  pr'ceed  diligently  t' 
get  locked  up,  'n'  I,  bye  and  bye,  comes  fo'th  wi'  the  long 
green  'n'  pays'm  put. 

"Now  he's  a  incident  uv  it:  Take  this  heh  Lem 
Jackson,  fp'  instance.  A  low-down  o'nry  hound,  it  would 
be  a  blessing  t'  this  dirty  little  district  'f  he  was  in  his 
grave;  but  the  troubles  comes  by  him  not  being  there. 
So  he,  on  earth  a-nmnin'  a-roun';  but  wi'  a  family — a 
wife  'n'  chillun  a-hollerin'  foT  bread. 

"It  comes  'bout  by  his  wife,  who  was  one  a-the  finest 
girls  in  this  burg  when  he  married  her.  So  yu'n  see, 
when  he  proceeds  t'  git  drunk,  'n'  drunk  right,  under 
stand,  'n'  then  gets  t*  squabblin'  wi'  some  other  no  count 
nigga,  'n'  gets  run  in,  who's  affected?" 

The  other  winced. 

"It's  the  same  wi'  dozens  of  the  others.  I'd  let  them 
stay  in  there  'n'  rot,  so  fo'  's  they  is  concerned;  but  t' 
me  comes  a  cry'n  wife,  'n'  a-string-a  hongry  kids,  so  I 
goes  'n'  bails  the  devil  out."  He  paused  a  moment  now 
to  breath  a  spell.  fl  'Cassionally,"  he  resumed,  "  I  c'n, 
with  some  'nfluence  I  have  with  the  judge,  get  some  out 
without  payin'  a  fine;  but  th'  lawyer  must  have  his, 
anyhow,  'n'  a  nigga,  's  I  done  already  said,  wouM'n'  pay 
the  Lo'd  Jesus  when  he's  out;  but  promises  to  bring  eve' 
dime  he  makes  t'  you  when  he's  in. 

"So,  the're  my  bu'den,  come  day,  go  day.  Over 
theah,  fo'  'nuther  instance,  stands  a  nigga — see  him? 
The  one  that's  so  drunk  'n'  noisy?  I  got  him  out  las' 


A  BIGGER  LIAH  THEY  AIN'T  IN  TOWN    193 

week,  when  he  had  received  two  hund'd  days  on  th' 
gang,  'n'  t'day  I  got  his  brother  out  who  was  locked  up 
Friday." 

"Why  can  they  not  keep  out  of  so  much  trouble?'' 
said  Wyeth  seriously. 

"Whiskey.  The  minute  they  get  the'  pay,  the  first 
thing  they  wants  is  whiskey,  'n'  then  a  crap  game." 

"And  women,"  said  Wyeth. 

"Yes,"  said  the  other;  "but  they  won't  spend  any 
money  on  them;  no,  that  would  in  one  sense,  be  too 
much  like  right." 

"What  per  cent  of  them,  do  you  think,  who,  after 
giving  their  word  as  a  bond,  would  stand  to  it,  a  promise, 
you  understand?" 

"I'm  'shame  t'  admit  it,  I'm  'shame  t'  admit  it;  but, 
honestly,  I  wouldn't  estimate  that  more  than  two  out  of 
ten  could  be  trusted  to  keep  their  word,  other  than  t' 
buy  a  pint  a  whiskey,  or  shoot  dice  until  they  did'n' 
have  a  dime." 

"What  effect  is  the  white  man's  prejudice  having  upon 
him  directly?"  Wyeth  inquired. 

"None!  None!  In  the  days  of  old,  and  even  yet,  the 
white  man's  prejudice  was  very  hindersome;  but,  as 
time  has  wore  on,  and  the  races  have  come  to  expect 
each  other  as  they  know  they  will  be,  the  prejudice  of 
the  white  man  is  not  near  so  hindersome  as  some  a  ouh 
people  would  have  you  b'lieve  it.  Of  co'se,"  he  added 
thoughtfully,  "politic'sis  in  a  way  denied  him;  but  a  great 
many  more  can  vote  than  they  do  if  they  would  pay  the' 
poll  taxes.  All  in  all,  you'll  find  so  much  ignorance,  and 
ignorance  by  preference  among  them,  and  their  minds  are 
so  polluted  with  the  devil,  until  politic's  as  they  are  now, 
would  not  make  much  difference.  I  sometimes  shudder 
when  I  look  around  me  and  listen,  to  conclude  what  the 
race  is  sometime  coming  to." 

"  You  have  a  large  number  of  churches,  a  hundred  odd, 
I  think.  That  should  act  as  a  great  feature  toward  the 
moral  evolution." 

"Very  little,  very  little,"  he  returned,  shaking  his 
head  sadly.  "For  this  reason:  The  churches,  while 

13 


194  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

having,  of  course,  many  good  men  as  their  pastors,  are 
filled  up  with  more  grafters,  it  seems,  and  mean  rascals 
as  well,  until  the  calling  is  not  fulfilled.  I  don't  hesitate 
t'  say  that  there  are  more  grafters  among  the  preachers, 
than  any  other  profession  among  the  colored  people  in 
this  town.  And  the  Baptists  have,  and  still  are,  building 
so  many  little  churches,  until  every  dime  available,  and 
unavailable  too,  is  used  fo'  this  purpose,  instead  of  some 
means  to  help  the  chillun." 

"Don't  you  think,  figuratively  speaking,  that  there 
are  too  many  Negro  churches?" 

"  'Course  the'  is,  a-course.  Why  there  are  more  than 
seventy  Baptist  churches  among  Negroes  in  the  town 
alone.  That  in  itself,  is  an  example  of  the  utter  selfish 
ness  tha'  p'vails  heh." 

"How  does  it  come  about?  It  seems  to  me  that  the 
organization  of  the  church  system  must  be  very  loose,  to 
permit  of  such  a  wholesale  building  of  churches  all  the 
time.  It  would  seem  advisable  that  if  they  had  fewer 
churches,  with  better  conduct  in  the  administration  of 
those  few,  more  good  would  result." 

"Well,  the  Baptists  are  dominated,  to  some  extent,  by 
the  association,  but  it  is  inadequate  in  many  ways.  For 
instance,  when  they  rule  a  pastor  out,  he  claims  to  a 
handful  of  devouts  and  friends,  that  he  has  been  made 
the  goat  of  a  frame-up,  starts  him  a  church  in  some 
shack,  or  any  other  place  where  he  can  concentrate  a 
few  shouters,  and  continues." 

"And  what  effect  does  all  this  have  upon  the  children?" 

He  held  up  his  hand  in  despair.  "Brother,  brother! 
That  is  the  sad  part.  The  colored  child  in  this  town  is 
lucky,  'f  he  becomes  anything  else  but  a  criminal  before 
he  does  anything  else.  His  surroundings  'n' — what's 
that  other  thing?"  he  stopped  short,  and  held  his  hand 
to  his  head. 

"Environment?" 

"That's  it!  His  'nvironment  is  so  bad.  He  is  sur 
rounded  by  eve'  thing  conducive  t'  crime  'n'  degenera 
tion.  He  sees,  hears,  'n'  is  brought  in  contact,  in  his 
eve'  day  life,  with  all  that  is  evil,  'n'  learns  t'  drink 


A  BIGGER  LIAH  THEY  AIN'T  IN  TOWN    195 

whiskey  befo'  he  gets  into  pants.  And  now,  instead  of 
the  Negro  churches  concentrating  their  efforts  toward 
the  raising  of  the  child,  they  put  all  the  fo'ce  into  the 
preacher's  lungs,  trying  t'  convert  ole  sinnahs  that 
nothin'  but  hell  itse'f  will  effect." 

"A  library,  and  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  properly  conducted,  might 
have  some  effect  for  the  good,  don't  you  think?" 

"A  dead  investment  fo'  yeahs  t'  come,  fo'  the  reason 
that  they  would  have  no  incentive  to  attend  either. 
Without  clean,  intelligent  parents,  'n'  better  conducted 
churches,  such  cannot  fulfill  the  purpose." 

"Hadn't  we  better  be  going?"  called  Miss  Palmer  at 
this  moment.  "It's  getting  late." 

The  two  shook  hands  as  they  parted.  As  Sidney  went 
over  the  hill,  that  sloped  for  a  long  way  down  to  the 
car  line,  he  did  not  seem  to  hear  Miss  Palmer,  and  he 
answered  her  mechanically. 

He  was  thinking,  thinking  of  what  he  had  learned,  in 
the  last  hour,  from  John  Smith,  merchant. 


CHAPTER  SIX 
"Yes— Miss  Latham" 

Three  weeks  had  passed  since  Mildred  Latham  first 
saw  the  city  she  now  called  home.  She  considered  it  the 
only  home  she  ever  really  had;  because  she  had  in  one 
person  a  friend,  such  as  she  had  never  felt  she  would 
have.  That  friend  was  Constance  Jacobs.  Daily,  they 
went  forth  together  in  their  work,  which  was  the  sale  of 
The  Tempest.  There  was  another,  who  was,  apparently, 
a  friend  also.  That  was  Wilson  Jacobs — but  more  of  him 
later. 

Where  there  is  congeniality,  understanding  and  sym 
pathy,  there  is  happiness  to  a  degree.  When  such  is  the 
case,  every  day—despite  even  an  arduous  task,  within 
itself,  becomes  a  holiday.  Such  were  the  days  which 
Mildred  Latham  experienced.  Constance  was  like  a 
sister.  One  of  those  rare  creatures,  whose  happiness 
came  in  her  honest  and  sincere  desire,  to  see  that  others 
were  happy  about  her.  She  had  found  Mildred  a  girl 
secretive  to  an  unfathomable  degree,  and,  to  say  the  least, 
strange;  but  withal,  a  personality,  and  a  sympathy  that 
was  so  sincere,  even  devout,  that  she  loved  her  more 
than  her  own  soul.  That  affection  seemed  to  grow  and 
become  more  apparent  when  she  saw,  slowly  but  truly, 
nevertheless,  a  cloud  lifting  from  the  brow  of  the  girl 
who  came  to  her  door  in  quest  of  lodging,  not  long  since. 

"Wilson,"  said  she  one  day,  "do  you  know,  can  you 
appreciate  how  much  it  means  to  one  to  please  some 
body;  to  make  one  feel  happy,  relieved,  and  in  turn,  see 
that  person,  come  to  know  her,  and  see  how  genuinely 
she  can,  in  turn,  appreciate  what  one  does?" 

"You  are  dealing  in  riddles  today,  Constance.  I  don't 
understand;  but  I  willjguess.  I&itMil — Miss  Latham?" 

196 


"YES— MISS  LATHAM"  197 

"Yes — Miss  Latham,"  whereupon  she  smiled  upon 
him,  and  then  looked  away. 

"Yes,"  she  resumed,  looking  out  of  the  window  upon 
a  small  garden  she  was  trying  to  further,  "it  is  she.  I 
think  if  I  know  her  until  the  end  of  my  days,  there  will 
always  be  something  strange — something  I  do  not — can 
never  understand;  but,  in  addition  to  showing  a  kind 
regard  for  the  little  things  it  pleases  one's  heart  to  do, 
she  makes  me  so  happy." 

"She  keeps  me  puzzled,"  said  Wilson.  "I  can  never 
make  up  my  mind  about  her.  She  is  indeed  a  mystery. 
I  do  not,  as  I  can  see,  have  any  clue  in  guessing  who  she 
is — and  what  she  is,  nor  can  I  even  conjecture.  She  is  a 
lady.  But  as  you  say,  and  have  said  before,  there  is 
something  about  her  that  one  can  never  understand." 
He  was  thoughtful.  Presently  he  heard  his  sister. 

"She  is  an  excellent  saleswoman,  although  I  do  not 
think  she  was  selling  the  book  until  she  came  here.  I 
have  not  asked  her.  She  is  one  of  these  people  who, 
while  not  forbidding  approach,  yet  her  manner  does  not 
invite  questioning.  But  she  is  a  business  woman — girl. 
I  cannot  come  to  see  her  as  a  girl,  and  yet,  in  the  sense 
we  know  her,  she  is  not  a  woman." 

"I  finished  the  book.  That  young  man  had  an  extra 
ordinary  experience,  to  say  the  least,"  said  Wilson. 

"Mr.  Carroll  has  finished  the  copy  I  sold  him,  but  his 
sympathies  are  not  altogether  with  the  pioneer;  he 
criticises  him." 

"How's  that?  Oh,  yes,  I  understand.  I  have  heard 
the  same  thing  from  others.  They  see  it;  that  the 
pioneer  should  have  seen  the  evil  and  insincerity  of  the 
preacher,  and  should  have  governed  his  happiness  accord 
ingly.  Yes,"  he  went  on,  "but  the  pioneer  did  see  that 
the  preacher  meant  no  good;  he  was  aware,  fully  aware 
that  he  was  about  to  become  the  victim  of  an  intrigue. 
But  regardless  of  this  fact,  it  must  be  appreciated,  that 
if  this  grave  incident  had  not  come  to  pass  in  the  life 
of  that  young  man,  we  would  not  now  have  the  book. 
Men  do  not " 

"And  women." 


198  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"Yes,  of  course/'  he  smiled,  "write  that  kind  of  book 
unless  their  lives  have  met  with  extreme  reverses;  some 
thing  in  their  souls  has  gone  amiss,  and,  as  a  last  resort — 
I  can't  quite  find  the  words  to  explain  it;  but  it — what 
they  write — is  a  brief  of  the  soul;  while  the  public  is  the 
court,  and  to  this  court,  as  in  the  common  court  of  the 
land,  they  cry  out  for  justice,  restitution/' 

"Well,"  sighed  Constance,  "whoever  this  Lochinvar  is, 
and  regardless  of  his  misfortunes,  writing  the  book  has 
made  one  person  happy.  That  person  is  Mildred  Latham. 
The  book  is  her  hobby.  I  would  give  something  to  learn 
why  she  is  so  wrapped  up  in  the  work;  but  it  gives  her 
more  pleasure,  I  am  sure,  to  show  it  to  someone,  and  tell 
them  the  story  a  dozen  times  a  day,  than  it  does  some  of 
those  levee  Negroes  to  get  drunk.  And  the  work,  she  is 
simply  lost  in  it.  She  makes  the  six  work  days  of  the 
week  seem  like  one,  with  her  cheerful  enthusiasm.  The 
very  life  in  itself  seems  to  please  her.  To  make  readers 
out  of  multitudes  who've  never  given  reading  a  second 
thought,  seems  to  be  her  great  ambition.  She  succeeds, 
too.  And  at  the  end  of  such  days,  more  than  at  any 
other  time,  she  is  like  I  fancy  her  to  be:  Feminine, 
lovable,  sympathetic — human  in  all  its  depths." 

"We  certainly  struck  it  rich  when  she  condescended  to 
play  for  the  choir.  And  she  can  seem  to  get  more  out  of 
the  organ  than  anyone  has  heretofore." 

"She  sings  too.  I  never  knew  that  she  could  sing  so 
sweetly,  until  she  led  last  Sunday,  when  Bernice  Waverly 
was  ill." 

"She  almost  made  me  forget  my  text." 

"She's  coming  now,"  whispered  Constance,  as,  upon 
the  narrow  walk,  a  familiar  footfall  sounded.  Presently 
the  screen  slammed  lightly  behind  the  one  of  their  con 
versation. 

"I've  been  clear  to  the  river,  walked  all  the  way  there 
and  back.  Thirty  blocks  in  all,"  she  cried  cheerfully, 
surveying  both,  smilingly. 

"And  after  all  the  walking  you  did  today  in  deliver 
ing!"  Constance  remonstrated  softly.  "You  mustn't 
overdo  your  good  health,  dear.  We  would  both  be  ter- 


"YES— MISS  LATHAM"  199 

ribly  upset  if  you  were  taken  down  in  any  way.  Did  you 
know  that?"  The  other  was  taken  by  surprise.  She 
was  plainly  embarrassed  for  a  moment,  and  to  dismiss  it 
she  plucked  childlike  at  her  skirts.  Presently  she  said 
lightly: 

"Always  saying  something,  Constance."  And  suddenly 
she  flew  into  the  caress  of  the  other.  "I  haven't  become 
used  to  such  words,  yet,  and  you'll  have  to  be  careful  in 
using  them.  Because,"  and  here  she  buried  her  head 
against  the  other's  shoulder,  "I  might  be  likely  to  boo- 
hoo."  The  three  laughed  it  away  now. 

"Constance  tells  me,  Miss  Latham,"  said  Wilson, 
"that  you  are  an  agent,  sophisticated  in  all  the  arts  that 
result  in  a  sale."  His  eyes  now  sought  hers  with  un 
feigned  admiration. 

" Constance  is,  too;  and  did  she  not  mention  herself?" 
She  rated  Constance  now  the  least  bit  severely.  "You 
never  give  yourself  credit  for  anything.  Why  don't 
you?"  She  frowned,  but  it  was  too  grateful — her  appear 
ance — to  be  accepted  seriously. 

"How  many  copies  are  both  of  you  delivering  weekly 
now?"  he  inquired. 

"We  delivered  eighty-seven  this  week  so  far,  and  forty- 
five  last  week,"  replied  Mildred,  sitting  very  close  to  his 
sister  on  a  small  settee. 

"Have  you  ever  thought,  Mildred,"  said  Constance, 
"that  selling  a  book,  or  anything,  for  that  matter,  is  a 
task  within  itself,  calling  always  for  initiative.  The 
average  person  has  not  the  courage,  at  least  he  has  not 
practiced  it,  that  would  make  a  salesman  or  saleswoman. 
All  of  us,  with  possibly  a  few  exceptions,  are  chattels, 
human  chattels.  The  ordinary  person  would  stand  on 
his  head  on  a  nail  for  an  hour,  if  someone  told  him  that 
was  right;  whereas,  to  take  upon  himself  the  task  of 
leading  anything,  he  is  an  utter  failure." 

"Constance  is  psychological  today,  don't  you  think?" 
smiled  her  brother;  but  Mildred  accepted  the  words 
seriously  and  listened  for  more.  Constance  had  a  turn 
of  logic,  and  was  in  the  habit,  Mildred  had  learned,  of 
saying  some  very  serious  things  at  times;  although  she 
could  not  be  regarded  as  entirely  serious. 


200  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"That  is  why  I  think  you  are  so  successful,  Mildred," 
she  went  on.  "You  seem  to  be  possessed  with  initiative; 
it  seems  a  part  of  your  construction;  you  seem  charged 
with  it;  and,  in  addition  to  this,  is  your  kind  regard  and 
appreciation,  for  another's  point  of  view." 

"Oh,  please  don't  tell  me  so  many  nice  things.  I  can't 
believe  it;  I  have  never  seen  myself  in  the  way  you 
speak  of,  and  if  you  persist,  dear,"  and  her  smile  upon 
Constance  was  the  softest,  "you  might  make  me  vain — 
and  I  would  almost  rather  be  anything  than  vain — and 
spoil  it  all.  Here!"  She  kissed  her  a  long  lingering  kiss, 
and  then  flew  to  her  room. 

"Wilson,"  said  his  sister,  when  they  were  alone  again, 
"when  I  think  of  the  young  man  and  his  experiences  in 
the  story,  and  his  make-up  and  point  of  view,  I  find 
myself  connecting  Mildred.  She  fills  my  dreams  in  that 
story  as  the  One  Woman.  How  successful  and  how  happy 
that  man  could  have  been,  had  he  had  a  treasure  like  her, 
for  his  own." 

"Well,  yes,  possibly.  No  doubt;  but  if,  taking  the 
story  as  it  is,  if  he  had  her  now,  after  what  has  come  to 
pass,  I  judge  he  could  appreciate  her  real  worth  to  a 
greater  degree.  Don't  you  agree  with  me?" 

She  was  thoughtful  a  moment  before  replying.  "Yes, 
I  think  I  do.  It  would  be  different  now."  She  was 
reflective  for  some  time  before  she  went  on  again.  "The 
other  day  I  said  to  her:  'If  you  had  been  in  the 
girl's  place  in  the  story,  how  would  you  have  accepted 
this  father?'  I  shall  not  soon  forget  how  strange  she 
looked.  Her  entire  being  seemed  to  undergo  a  change. 
From  the  way  I  recall  it,  her  mind  seemed  to  go  back 
into  the  past,  and  she  was  so  odd  for  a  few  seconds,  that 
I  was  sorry  I  said  it.  Then,  after  a  moment,  during 
which  she  seemed  to  struggle  with  something,  she  said: 
'I  would  not,  you  may  be  sure,  have  been  like  the  girl.' 
That  was  all,  and  I  said  no  more;  nor  do  I  think  I  will 
again.  She  acted — ah,  I  can't  hardly  frame  it;  but, 
frankly,  too  peculiar." 

"I'm  going  to  bed,  Sis',"  said  her  brother  now.  His 
eyes  were  evidence  that  he  should  go.  He  was  awake 


"YES— MISS  LATHAM"  201 

now  for  a  moment.  "I've  been  much  interested  in  what 
has  passed  tonight,  Sis'.  I'll  be  glad  to  talk  on  the  same 
subject  again."  He  was  silent  a  moment,  and  then, 
rising,  he  said,  "Good  night." 

"Good  night,  Wilson." 

Then  she  heard  his  door  close,  after  watching  him 
until  he  reached  his  door;  after  that,  she  fell  into  deep 
and  serious  thinking.  It  concerned  him.  He  was  all  she 
had — this  brother — and  his  future  was  in  her  thoughts 
now,  a  grave  concern  of  hers.  Yes,  and  Wilson  Jacobs 
was  now  one  and  thirty.  ...  He  had  no  wife^— not  even 
did  he  see  women  in  that  sense.  Constance  didn't  think 
of  herself  now — nor  at  any  other  time,  apparently. 
And  yet  she  was  twenty-eight;  but  she  felt,  if  her  brother 
was  to  be  a  happy  man,  he  should  consider  his  life  more 
seriously.  He  was  lost  in  his  purpose.  Mildred  Latham 
was  a  girl,  the  kind  of  girl  she  would  like  to  see  him 
take  notice  of. 

And  then  she  was  jerked  back  into  a  sudden  reminder. 
.  .  .  Wilson  had  been  acting  different  lately.  How  could 
she,  for  one  moment,  have  forgotten  it.  Yes,  he  had 
been  acting  very  differently.  ...  He  was  all  attention 
when  Mildred  was  saying  anything.  He  was  careful  never 
to  disturb  her.  And  only  tonight,  when  they  had  spoken 
of  her  together,  he  had  almost  called  her  by  her  first 
name. 

Constance  Jacobs  was  now  oblivious  to  what  was 
about  her.  She  continued  to  think.  Mildred  was  kind, 
she  was  intelligent;  she  was — and  here  Constance  forgot 
the  words  Mildred  had  said  not  an  hour  before,  '  I  cannot 
stand  vanity ' — beautiful . ' ' 

She  retired  presently,  but  it  was  sometime  before  she 
went  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

"It  All  Falls  Right  Back  on  Society" 

"Two  Negroes  killed  yesterday  in  the  city,  is  the 
homicide  record  for  this  town,  which  makes  thirteen 
killed  in  the  last  week,"  said  Wilson  Jacobs  the  following 
morning,  as  he  laid  the  paper  down  to  take  up  his  knife 
at  breakfast.  "Every  day,  at  least,  it  is  almost  every 
day,  there  is  a  murder  of  each  other  by  our  people  in  this 
town.  Saturday  night  or  Sunday  usually  sees  four  or 
five  such  crimes/' 

"Isn't  it  deplorable?"  breathed  Mildred,  seating  her 
self  at  the  other  side.  "What  accounts,  Mr.  Reverend" 
— she  somehow  found  it  awkward  to  call  him  Reverend — 
"Jacobs,  for  such  acts,  that  is,  such  is  to  be  expected; 
but  why  does  there  happen  to  be  so  much  of  it  here?" 

"Ignorance — lack  of  intelligence  in  our  people.  This 
city  has  a  preponderance  of  ignorant,  polluted  people 
among  the  Negroes.  They  flock  into  this  town  from  all 
around,  and  represent  the  low,  polluted,  and  depraved 
element  of  our  race.  They  settle  about  the  levee  district, 
spend  their  earnings  for  the  worst  whiskey,  give  the 
remainder  of  their  time  to  gambling  and  all  forms  of 
vice,  and  murder  is  the  natural  consequence." 

"Is  there  no  way,  there  are  so  many  churches,  it  would 
seem  that  so  many  places  of  worship  would  have  a  good 
effect  upon  these  people?"  said  the  other  anxiously. 

"More  than  a  hundred  Negro  churches  in  this  town; 
but  they  are,  for  the  most  part,  churches  only.  Seventy 
of  these  are  Baptist,  and  they  are  building  more  right 
along." 

"I  meet  it  every  day  in  my  work,"  she  said.  "Always 
so  many  apparently  good  women,  mothers  and  daughters, 
sisters,  who  say:  'I  sho  would  lak  t'  have  that  book, 
but  y'  see,  it's  lak  this.  We's  building  a  new  chu'ch; 

202 


IT  ALL  FALLS  RIGHT  BACK  ON  SOCIETY  203 

or,  a  rally  is  on  next  Sunday,  'n'  all  the  women  is  axed 
t'  give  five  dollars  V  the  men  ten/  etc.  and  etc.  But 
that  is  not  the  most  I  hear;  it  is:  'Lawd,  Lawd,  honey, 
yu'  sweet  li'l  chile.  I  sho  is  sorry  to  disappint  you. 
I  sho  is.  You  walkin'  way  up  heh  'n'  bringin'  tha'  book; 
but  don'  you  know,  honey,  that  low  down  nigga  man  a 
mine  went  off  Sat'dy  night  un  got  drunk,  got  V  fightin' 
and  was  'rested.  I  did'n'  pay  no  Mention  when  'e  did'n' 
show  up  a-Sat'dy  night;  nor  was  I  wo'ied  Sunday;  but 
when  Monday  mawnin'  come  'n'  no  nigga,  den  I  knowed 
de  p'lice  done  got  dat  nigga.  And  dey  had,  Sat'dy  night 
fo'  fightin'  'n'  'sturbin  de  peace.  So  I  done  took  yo' 
money,  honey,  'n'  got  dat  nigga  out.  'n'  now,  honey,  I 
jes'  cain'  say  when  I'll  be  ready,  'cause  'e  done  lost  his 
job,  too,  so  that  means  I  gotta  take  ceh'  a  both  uv  us."1 

"If  we  allow  our  minds  to  dwell  too  long  on  it,  frankly, 
Miss  Latham,"  said  he,  "we  will  become  discouraged. 
Where  ignorance  is  bliss,  it  may  be  folly  to  be  wise;  but 
it  is  unprofitable,  from  a  moral  point  of  view.  So,  as 
long  as  we  have  a  preponderance  of  ignorance,  just  so 
long  are  we  going  to  have  a  dreadful  homicide  record  in 
this,  and  other  towns." 

"  I  read  an  editorial  in  the  paper  recently,  with  regard 
to  murder  and  the  record  per  city,"  said  Miss  Latham. 
"I  see  that  the  south  leads.  And  this  town  and  Effing- 
ham  seem  to  struggle  for  the  lead  of  them  all.  It  was 
not  decided  as  to  which  had  the  most,  but  it  stated  that 
more  people  were  murdered  in  either  one  of  them  than  in 
any  other  city  in  the  world,  regardless  of  population." 

"And  that  is  not  all.  In  both  of  these  cities,  no  data 
is  kept  of  the  number  the  police  kill.  I  know  policemen 
personally,  and  see  them  on  duty,  who  have  killed  as 
many  as  half  a  dozen  Negroes." 

"Oh,  be  merciful!"  she  cried.  "Can  this  really  be 
so?" 

"It  is  so,"  he  maintained.  "Why  last  week  I  stopped 
a  few  days  in  Effingham  on  the  way  from  Attalia,  and 
read  on  the  front  page  of  one  of  the  leading  papers,  and 
which  was  accompanied  by  a  cut,  that  an  old  policeman, 
who  had  seen  twenty-five  years  on  the  force,  and  who 


204  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

had  recently  been  made  a  captain,  had  never  killed  a 
man.  It  was  this  fact,  obviously,  that  was  the  most 
extraordinary." 

"Cannot  the  city  government  do  more  toward  the 
suppression  of  so  much  crime?"  she  asked,  forgetting  to 
eat  her  breakfast. 

"They  cannot  to  any  great  extent,  because  it  is  the 
task  of  society.  The  very  foundation  upon  which  this 
crime  rests,  is  due  to  ignorance  on  the  part  of  the  masses. 
You  cannot  reason  with  a  mind  that  has  no  training. 
Have  you  ever  seen  it  that  way?"  he  asked,  more  serious 
now  than  she  had  ever  seen  him  before,  notwithstanding 
he  was  a  serious  person. 

She  nodded. 

"No  one  can,  the  law  of  the  land  cannot.  It  all  falls 
right  back  on  society."  He  was  too  serious  now  for  a 
time  to  say  anything,  and  he  ate  his  meal  with  his  face 
contracted  in  serious  thought.  Presently  he  said:  "I 
am  a  minister  of  the  gospel,  and  have  the  highest  regard 
for  the  Presbyterian  faith;  but,  honestly,  when  I  see 
the  Baptists  with  their  loose  system,  keeping  the  black 
population  that  make  up  their  body,  and  with  little, 
almost  no  effort  whatever  toward  the  education  of  the 
children,  and  when  I  see  still  further,  the  Methodists 
with  their  better  system,  in  that  they  are  not  held  back 
so  much  by  'splitters/  I  sometimes  regret  that  the  world 
took  Martin  Luther  seriously.  For,  say  what  they  will, 
the  conduct  of  the  Catholics  in  regard  to  the  children, 
marriage  and  divorce,  has  an  encouraging  result  in  our 
civic  life." 

"I  believe  that  if  there  were  a  Christian  movement 
here  as  there  is  in  the  northern  cities,  Y.  M.  C.  A.  and 
libraries,  and  if  those  who  are  leaders  of  the  race  would 
encourage  the  patronage  of  these  places,  eventually,  it 
would  result  to  the  public's  good,"  she  said,  after  some 
thought. 

"Only  one  place  in  the  south,  as  yet,  seems  to  be 
making  any  effort  along  such  Christian  lines.  And  you 
would  not  believe  it,  but  the  greatest  barrier  to  this  has 
been  the  preachers.  In  their  church  effort,  they  have 


"IT  ALL  FALLS  BACK  ON  SOCIETY"     205 

the  people  fairly  well  under  control,  but  to  their  own  end. 
In  Attalia,  they  have  almost  come  to  appreciate  the  fact, 
that  a  more  intelligent  and  cleaner  populace  reacts  to 
the  welfare  of  the  church.  Everything  seems  favorable 
toward  getting  one." 

"I  am  sure  that  would  make  a  great  difference  in 
time,"  said  she,  heartily.  "In  Cincinnati,  they  expect 
to  begin  one  soon.  They  have  almost  all  the  subscrip 
tions  in  now."  She  was  silent  for  a  time,  and  then 
pursued:  "Do  you  not  think  such  a  movement  could 
be  stimulated  here?" 

"Not  at  the  present,  I  think,  regardless  of  the  great 
need  of  one,  and  of  the  great  good  it  could  do.  It  will  be 
some  time  before  the  preachers  would  come  to  lend  their 
support — in  fact,  I  do  not  think  it  could  be  expected 
until  they  have  been  shown,  in  a  majority,  that  such 
would  react  for  the  good  of  all." 

"Oh,  my!"  cried  Constance,  entering  at  this  moment, 
"you  two  appear  to  have  worked  yourself  into  a  frenzy 
of  excitement."  She  surveyed  both,  questioningly. 

"We  have,"  her  brother  replied. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

"Where  Are  You  From?" 

Mildred  worked  hard  that  day.  As  she  went  from  the 
rear  of  one  house  to  another,  she  studied  the  people  she 
met,  more  seriously  than  she  had  done  before.  By  this 
time,  her  work  had  become  automatic,  and  she  did  not 
find  it  hard  or  monotonous,  to  say  the  same  thing  over 
and  over  again.  She  had,  moreover,  become  accustomed 
to  the  class  of  people  among  whom  she  worked.  She  liked 
it  now,  and  for  more  than  one  reason;  but  perhaps  the 
greatest  reason,  was  because  it  brought  her  into  the 
closest  contact  with  humanity,  without  regard  to  con 
ventionality.  The  people  she  met  daily,  with  few  ex 
ceptions,  made  no  attempt  to  be  conventional.  They 
were  human,  almost  all  of  them.  She  met  them  in  their 
vocations;  she  studied  their  environment.  Some  she 
saw,  grown  people  with  families,  but  themselves  like 
children.  They  gave  their  word  with  apparent  sincerity, 
and  did  not  make  any  more  effort  to  keep  it  than  the 
merest  babe.  Why  did  they  not?  She  asked  this  question, 
and  then  studied  them  carefully  for  the  answer.  It  was 
ignorance.  It  amused  her  to  find  so  many  who  were 
positive  they  did  not  want  it,  did  not  even  read,  so  how 
could  they  use  it?  "But  you  can  read?"  she  would 
inquire.  "Sho!"  would  invariably  come  the  answer. 
Then  came  argument.  Force  of  reason  on  her  part,  and 
sometimes,  she  guiltily  felt,  it  was  by  force  of  argument 
they  were  induced  to  buy.  She  now  paid  little  attention 
when  they  remarked  that  they  did  not  want  the  book. 
Obviously,  since  the  most  stubborn  ones  were,  very  often 
after  argument,  the  most  appreciative  buyers,  she  found 
it  reasonable  to  ignore  their  words  of  objection. 

Mildred's  life  was  a  diversion  that  was  much  to  her 


206 


" WHERE  ARE  YOU  FROM?"  207 

liking.  She  was  learning  the  greatest  lesson  a  woman 
could  learn — the  study  of  human  nature. 

On  Sunday,  when  she  met  others  (Wilson  Jacobs' 
church  had  for  its  members  the  more  thoughtful  and 
respectable  Negro  element),  she  was  the  recipient  of 
many  surprised  expressions.  They  were,  she  invariably 
found,  surprised  that  she  canvassed  among  the  servant 
class.  She  did  not  appraise  them  of  the  practical  side 
of  it;  in  fact,  of  the  masses,  these  were  more  able  to  buy. 
She  saw,  as  the  Sundays  went  by,  that  much  of  the 
display  was  a  pretense.  Many  of  those  who  expressed 
such  surprise  were  themselves  unwilling  to  buy  a  book. 
Always  she  found  (and  especially  among  the  teachers, 
whom  she  thought  the  most  pretentious)  some  artful 
excuse.  Most  of  them  had  a  library  which  contained 
many  books,  but  few  by  their  own  race.  They  had  the 
works  of  a  poet  who  had  died  some  years  ago;  they  also 
had  a  copy  of  a  book  or  so  by  the  principal  of  Tuskegee. 
And  then,  one  day  she  learned,  from  a  most  reliable  and 
unbiased  source:  "That  those  people  bought  the  works 
of  the  now  dead  poet,  because  his  name  had  become  a 
fetish.  The  white  people  had  accepted  these  men's  work 
and  called  them  great.  Therefore,  the  Negroes  had 
accordingly  followed  suit.  So  the  Negro  author  must 
first  get  a  white  audience,  which  will  laud  the  greatness 
of  his  pen,  and  then  the  Negroes  will  buy,  calling  the 
book  great  also." 

Miss  Latham  found  conditions  thus,  and  governed  her 
work  accordingly.  But,  as  time  went  on,  she  met  sur 
prises.  They  did  not  buy  The  Tempest,  but  they  read  it. 
She  found  it  borrowed  among  them  all.  They  never 
offered  to  buy  it,  but  they  read  it  nevertheless. 

She  did  not  understand  this  at  first. 

So  she  found  the  masses,  often  amusing,  to  say  the 
least,  but  often  with  more  active  race  regard.  They 
had  the  many  faults  of  ignorance;  easy  to  influence  into 
giving  an  order,  they  were  still  more  ready  to  back  out, 
lie  out  of  taking  it.  Some  of  those  who  took  orders,  and 
even  the  books,  did  not  read,  she  learned.  While  others 
could  read,  but  did  not;  but  when  she  told  them  all 


208  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

the  story,  the  story  of  her  hero,  for  now  she  held  him 
thus,  they  were  all  thrilled,  and  inspired.  Thus  it  hap 
pened  that  many  bought  the  book  because  it  was  by  a 
Negro,  and  said  as  much. 

Mildred  Latham  succeeded  in  her  work.  And  with  her 
success,  there  came  to  her  each  day,  almost  every  hour, 
thoughts  of  the  one  of  her  dreams.  This  day,  and  others 
as  well,  she  shuddered  when  she  could  not  forget  what 
he  had  been  told.  It  was  worse,  and  more,  because  he 
had  been  told  the  truth.  It  hurt  her.  He  was  some 
where,  and  he  didn't  know  that  she  loved  him;  but, 
even  if  he  did,  he  could  not  accept  this  knowledge  with 
any  delight.  No,  he  was  out  of  her  life,  or,  rather,  she 
was  out  of  his.  He  would  never,  no  never,  be  out  of  hers. 
Never,  because,  as  she  felt  every  day,  it  was  his  memory 
that  stimulated  her,  made  her  feel  and  appreciate  what 
great  good  a  life  can  do.  And  she  did  all  she  could,  in 
her  way,  to  assist  others.  Some  day,  maybe,  she  might 
be  able  to  do  more. 

When  she  undressed  each  night  to  retire,  she  fell  on 
her  knees  and  offered  thanks  to  Him  that  is  Holy.  She 
asked  for  strength  and  conviction  and  courage  to  con 
tinue  in  the  same  on  the  morrow.  She  struggled  to  lead 
a  Christian  life,  and  to  be  acceptable  in  the  eyes  of  her 
Creator.  .  .  .  She  was  a  believer. 

Mildred  was  welcomed  everywhere,  and  treated  with 
all  the  courtesy  due  to  a  lady.  When  she  left  a  house 
one  day,  where  two  women  had  given  her  their  order, 
she  overheard  them  say  she  was  beautiful.  She  felt  her 
heart  throbbing.  She  was  not  vain,  but  she  loved  to  be 
called  attractive.  Then  she  thought  of  him.  He  had 
called  her  beautiful  also.  She  wondered  whether  he,  at 
any  time,  forgot  the  words  he  heard,  and  remembered 
her  as  he  had  seen  her  that  day.  The  day  they  had 
danced  and  he — kissed  her.  She  seemed  to  feel  still  that 
kiss;  she  hoped  to  feel  it  always.  She  wondered,  if  he 
knew  she  was  working  in  his  memory  and  made  happy 
thereby,  would  he  be  pleased — and  would  he,  at  least, 
try  to  forget  as  much  as  he  could  what  he  had  been  told. 
He  could,  of  course,  not  forget.  That  made  it  hard. 
She  did  net  ewpeet  kim  to  forget. 


"WHERE  ARE  YOU  FROM?"  208 

When  the  day's  work  was  done,  and  she  had  returned 
to  her  place  of  abode,  she  lay  upon  her  bed,  and  for  a 
time,  she  gave  up  to  thoughts  of  him.  She  knew  not 
where  he  was.  She  did  not  try  to  find  out,  that  would 
make  it  worse.  Sometimes  she  felt  that  if  she  did,  per 
haps,  it  might  help  her  in  her  picture  of  him;  then 
again,  she  did  not  think  it  best.  That  might  bring  him 
too  conspicuously  before  her.  Sometimes  at  night  she 
would  suddenly  awaken,  and  her  very  soul  would  be  on 
fire.  She  sat  up  at  these  times,  and  almost  declared  it 
could  not  go  on  this  way.  She  must  know  his  where 
abouts;  he  must  feel,  know  that  she  loved  him.  And 
then,  when  the  spell  had  died — was  killed,  for  its  death 
was  inevitable,  she  would  lie  down  again  and  try  to  for 
get.  But  she  never  succeeded  in  this. 

More  than  a  month  had  passed  since  she  came  hither. 
She  had,  with  the  assistance  of  Constance,!  sold  more 
than  three  hundred  copies  of  the  book.  She  had  saved 
the  greater  part  of  her  earnings.  She  wondered,  one  day, 
as  she  left  a  Negro  bank,  where  she  kept  it,  what  he 
would  think  of  her,  if  he  could  know.  She  saw  him 
viewing  her  in  many  ways,  as  she  was  now.  But  always 
she  was  left  undecided.  Never  would  what  he  had  been 
told,  seem  to  leave  her  free  and  undisturbed. 

One  day  she  returned  home  very  much  excited.  She 
didn't  let  Constance  see  her  though.  She  had  an  ad 
venture  that  day.  She  encountered  a  man  who  looked 
at  her  strangely,  when  she  was  offering  the  book.  She 
had  seen  him  in  Cincinnati;  and  she  recognized  him  by 
a  scar  on  his  forehead;  but  she  had  not  known  this 
until  she  looked  into  his  face,  and  asked  him  to  give  her 
his  order.  Then  he  started.  Did  he  recognize  her?  She 
thought  not,  because  she  had  not  known  he  ever  saw  her, 
when  he  used  to  pass  by  the  house  in  Cincinnati,  where 
she  then  lived.  When  she  recognized  him  this  day,  she 
had  bungled  in  her  talk.  This  fact  made  him  suspicious. 
He  regarded  her  with  undisguised  curiosity.  Presently 
his  face  cleared,  and  he  said:  "You  remind  me  of  a  girl 
I  once  used  to  see  and  know  in  Cincinnati.  Where  are 
you  from?"  She  tried  to  ignore  this  question;  she 

14 


210  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

pretended  not  to  hear  him.  Despite  this  effort,  she 
choked.  He  observed  it,  and  was  convinced  that  she 
was  the  one  he  had  seen  and  known.  Then  she  was 
frightened,  and,  of  course,  did  the  worst  thing  she  could 
have  done.  She  asked  to  be  excused,  and  forthwith  fled. 
She  had  not  gone  many  steps  when  she  heard  him  mutter: 
"Well,  I'll  be  damned!"  And  still  before  she  got  beyond 
the  sound  of  his  voice,  she  heard  him  again:  "The 
same.  Wonder  what  kind  of  a  game  she  is  playing  here. 
Books.  Hump!  Well  I'll  be  damned!' 

She  didn't  canvass  any  more  that  day.  She  couldn't. 
She  was  too  nervous  and  afraid.  Then  she  was  upset 
for  other  days.  She  feared  to  meet  him.  She  could 
never  again  stand  that  gaze  of  suspicion.  All  that  she 
had  lived  suddenly  stood  before  her  when  she  recalled  it. 
Night  came,  and  she  retired  early.  The  incident  per 
sisted  in  her  memory.  She  was  exhausted,  and  then 
she  did  what  any  unhappy  girl  is  most  likely  to  do. 
She  cried  all  night. 

Even  if  she  felt  Sidney  Wyeth  had  closed  the  chapter 
of  her  in  his  life,  she  wanted  him.  She  needed  him.  To 
have  felt  now  that  he  loved  her,  in  spite  of  what  he  had 
heard,  he  could  and  would  protect  her.  He  stood  before 
her  now  and  she  saw  him  as  she  had  never  seen  him 
before.  How  strong  and  brave  and  courageous  he  was! 
He  was  her  hero.  She  went  to  sleep  after  a  time,  a 
troubled,  fitful  sleep,  and  when  she  heard  Constance 
calling  her  the  following  morning,  she  awoke  with  a  start 
and  was  rested,  although  she  could  not  understand  how 
it  was  possible.  But  she  was  calm.  After  all,  she  felt, 
maybe,  her  fear  was  premature. 

She  worked  that  day  with  her  usual  good  spirits. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

"But  Smith  Is  Not  His  Real  Name" 

Owen  Beasely.  That  was  his  name,  and  Sidney  met 
him  while  waiting  for  a  subscriber,  who  failed  to  show  up. 
He  was  a  relative  of  Smith's,  whom  he  had  met  the  day 
before.  It  was  two  P.  M.,  the  fourth  day  of  July,  and 
the  colored  people,  as  well  as  the  white,  had  retired  to 
a  day  of  delight.  It  was  hot,  and  clouds  rolled  up,  white- 
capped  from  the  west.  "It  would  rain  before  night," 
the  weather  man  said,  and  it  did. 

"And  so  you  came  from  the  west,"  said  Beasely,  who 
had  been  reading  The  Tempest.  Wyeth  had  seen  him 
working  behind  the  counter,  and  they  put  aside  all 
formality  of  introduction.  Wyeth  was  glad  to  meet 
someone  to  talk  to  that  day.  He  had  come  out  to  this 
suburb,  under  promise  of  subscribers  to  take  the  book. 
And,  since  every  one  of  them  had  retracted,  he  was  dis 
couraged,  which  is  a  disagreeable  feeling. 

"Yes/'  he  replied  gloomily,"  and  the  day  I  return  will 
be  one  of  great  happiness.  I  am  not  particularly  in  love 
with  being  down  here  anyhow;  and  the  sooner  I  see  the 
plains  again,  that  much  sooner  will  I  be  happy  and 
contented." 

"Well,"  drawled  the  other  lazily,  "having  been  born 
down  here,  and  never  having  seen  the  rest  of  this  great 
domain,  I  do  not,  of  course,  know  the  difference;  still, 
I  have  always  cherished  a  longing  to  go  west.  I  intended 
going  to  Oklahoma  years  ago,  and  getting  in  on  some  of 
that  government  land  they  were  giving  away,  but  I  put 
it  off  until  it  was  too  late,  and  then  too,  I  had  trouble  In 
my  family.  My  oldest  daughter  married  a  worthier 
rascal  who  burdened  her  with  those  children  you  gee 
playing  about  the  store,  and  I  had  to  take  care  of  them' 
and  her  too,  since  her  marriage  left  her  In  bad  health." 

211 


212  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

The  other  listened  without  comment.  Beasely,  how 
ever,  went  on,  apparently  in  a  mood  to  relate  the  past. 

"Smith  has  been  telling  me  about  you,  and  I  have 
been  anxious  to  have  a  talk  with  you.  Smith  is  my 
brother-in-law,  and  he  too,  has  had  his  share  of  trials/' 

By  this  time,  they  had  settled  themselves  on  the  porch 
of  an  empty  quarter  house.  Wyeth  chanced  to  look 
around,  and,  seeing  so  many  empty  ones,  said:  "How 
does  this  come  to  be?  So  many  empty  houses?" 

"Bulgarians  lived  in  this  row/'  he  said,  pointing  to 
them.  "Hundreds  of  them,  and  when  the  war  broke  out 
in  the  Balkan  states,  every  last  one  of  them  left  here  and 
went  back  to  fight,  and  have  not  returned." 

' '  Some  patriotism,  eh ! "   Wyeth  commented . 

"It  is  singular  about  these  foreigners,"  he  said  thought 
fully.  "Have  you  ever  observed  them?" 

The  other  nodded.    Beasely  went  on. 

"They  come  to  this  country  without  knowing  a  word 
of  our  language,  and  from  a  poor  country.  But  they  are 
not  here  ten  years,  before  they  are  able,  financially,  to 
buy  a  car  load  of  our  people.  Negroes  are  certainly  a 
problem  to  themselves.  These  foreigners  always  have 
money,  and  many  of  them  return  to  the  old  country  and 
retire,  after  a  few  years  of  just  ordinary  hard  work  here; 
while  many  of  our  people  at  the  same  job,  if  they  get  sick 
a  week,  are  on  the  county. 

"Clerking  in  a  store  where  the  trade  is  of  the  kind  we 
have,"  he  went  on,  "is  an  opportunity  for  the  best  study 
in  human  nature  you  can  possibly  imagine.  A  man  like 
Smith,  for  instance,  can  succeed  with  the  trade  of  his 
people,  when  he  can  get  it.  Smith  has  succeeded  on  the 
heels  of  his  own  failure." 

"It  appears  harder  for  one  of  us  to  succeed,  than  for 
any  other  race  now,  doesn't  it?"  commented  Wyeth. 

"It  does,  it  does  indeed,"  said  Beasely.  "Somehow  the 
money  gets  through  our  fingers,  despite  our  efforts  to 
hold  it." 

"This  morning,"  said  Sidney,  "I  had  an  experience 
that  amused  me.  I  had  the  promise  to  take  a  book  to  a 
certain  fellow  in  Averytown.  I  called  accordingly  with 


BUT  SMITH  IS  NOT  HIS  REAL  NAME     218 

the  same,  but  he  had  just  left.  His  family  didn't,  rather 
couldn't  tell  me  where  I  was  likely  to  find  him.  I  came 
on  up  the  street  that  leads  here,  and  made  inquiries  on 
the  way.  Every  one  who  knew  him  gave  me  the  same 
advice.  'If/  they  said,  'he  is  not  home,  just  go  to  every 
saloon  between  here  and  there,  and  you  will  be  sure  to 
find  him/  I  did  so,  and  found  him  at  the  second  one." 

"And  did  he  take  it?"   asked  Beasely. 

"Oh,  I  hadn't  thought  of  it  since.  No,  he  didn't  take 
the  book — but  I  think  he  will.  He  had  no  money,  and 
when  I  approached  him  he  went  to  the  commissary,  took 
a  scrip  and  got  some  groceries.  These  he  took  to  some 
body  and  sold  them,  a  dollar  and  a  half  worth  for  a 
dollar.  He  then  gave  me  a  quarter,  and  told  me  to 
bring  it  next  pay  day."  After  a  moment  he  said :  "  Smith 
is  an  exceptional  business  man  for  a  Negro,  and  an  inter 
esting  man  to  talk  to." 

"Yes,"  smiled  the  other;  "but  Smith  is  not  his  real 
name.  He  took  that  after  coming  here.  And  since  we 
have  spoken  of  it,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  the  story  of  John 
Smith,  alias  Thomas  Rollins."  He  laughed  as  his  voice, 
very  dramatic  in  what  he  had  just  said,  came  back  to 
him. 

The  other  listened,  and  prepared  himself  to  do  so  com 
fortably,  while  Beasely  mopped  his  forehead,  drew  his 
breath,  and  prepared  to  tell  the  following  story. 

Beasely  was  a  black  man — a  full  blood — and  intelligent. 
Nearly  fifty  years  he  seemed  to  be,  although,  at  a  passing 
glance,  he  would  have  passed  for  forty.  He  had  been  a 
school  teacher,  and  had  some  education,  Wyeth  had  ob 
served  from  his  careful  use  of  English. 

"We  lived  in  Palmetto,  Georgia,  where  he  married  my 
sister.  He  was  then  a  farmer  and  pastor  of  the  Baptist 
church,  while  I  farmed  and  taught  the  local  country 
school.  He  had  been  in  politics  quite  actively  in  the 
eighties  and  early  nineties,  as  were  many  other  Negroes 
during  the  reconstruction  period,  and  had  served  as  post 
master  for  four  years.  Now,  in  this  town  were  what  is 
called  a  bunch  of  pet  Negroes.  These  were  coons  whom 
the  white  people  used  as  local  goats  for  their  amusements. 


214  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

And,  so  to  speak,  they  were  a  sort  of  privileged  character, 
but  became  too  familiar.  As  everywhere  in  the  south, 
this  town  had  its  herd  of  the  poor  trash,  that  kept  things 
stirred  up  in  the  way  of  lynching  and  other  lawlessness. 
Considerable  incendiarism  had  occurred  of  late,  and  some 
of  these  pets  were  accused.  Friction  had  been  evident 
for  some  time  in  this  county  and  all  around,  and,  with 
this  burning  and  accusations,  a  wholesale  lynching  took 
place.  About  a  dozen  of  these  pets  were  herded  into  a 
box  car,  and  burned  alive.  It  was  the  most  diabolical 
thing  that  could  be  perpetrated  by  human  beings,  and 
created  much  comment  all  over  the  country.  It  drove 
hundreds  of  Negroes  out  of  the  county,  and  you  will  find 
them  scattered  over  the  rest  of  the  state  and  other  parts 
now.  Sometime  after  this,  a  strange  Negro  came  to 
town,  and  hung  around  Smith's  place  for  a  while.  He 
secured  a  job  finally  with  a  white  man,  who  was  one  of 
the  men  who  led  the  mob.  It  seems,  one  day,  he  over 
heard  him  relating  how  they  burned  the  pets.  This 
crazed  the"  Negro,  or  it  might  have  been  that  one  of  the 
victims  was  a  brother  of  his,  who  knows.  Well,  this 
Negro  took  an  ax,  marched  into  the  room,  and  without 
a  word,  split  open  the  man's  head. 

"He  made  his  escape.  Pandemonium  reigned.  Lynch 
ing  by  hanging  and  burning  at  the  stake  became  common, 
and  a  general  state  of  lawlessness  reigned  for  some  time. 

"Now,  after  this  Negro  had  killed  the  man,  he  came 
by  Smith's  and  got  the  clothes  Smith's  cook  had  washed 
for  him.  He  threatened  her  with  death  if  she  ever  said 
anything  about  it.  Well,  a  lot  of  the  poor  crackers  had 
become  jealous  of  Smith  anyhow,  and  they  tried  to  im 
plicate  him  in  it,  while  he  knew  nothing  about  it.  Smith 
stood  well  with  the  best  white  people;  but  when  any 
friction  comes  up  in  these  parts,  the  cracker  is  supreme, 
because  he  has  the  numbers.  So,  while  the  mob  spirit 
was  still  prevalent,  they  decided  to  give  vent  to  their 
jealousy,  and  called  on  Smith  with  a  dark  purpose.  They 
charged  him  with  having  furnished  this  Negro  with  an 
ax  and  instructions  to  kill  the  cracker.  So  they  were 
on  the  way  to  see  him,  when  I  warned  him  at  church  one 


BUT  SMITH  IS  NOT  HIS  REAL  NAME 

Sunday  morning,  preparing  to  preach  a  •ermon.  H« 
hurried  home,  grabbed  a  few  things,  and  left  the  state  at 
fast  as  he  could  leave  it. 

"That  is  how  Smith  came  to  be  in  this  country  and 
doing  business;  but  there  is  another  part  of  this  chapter, 
and  which  brings  us  up  to  the  present. 

"A  Negro  worked  for  Smith  back  there,  and  after  the 
thing  had  died  out  and  people  there  saw  that  he  was 
wrongly  accused,  this  Negro  came  on  here,  and  since 
then,  this  has  been  his  home.  Having  known  him  back 
there,  Smith  trusted  him  in  the  store  here,  and  continued 
to  trust  him  until  he  was  head  over  heels  in  debt  to  him. 
There  came  a  day  when  Smith  was  tired  of  this,  and 
called  him  to  account.  The  Negro,  then,  instead  of  pay 
ing  like  a  man,  or  making  an  effort  to  do  so,  howled  his 
head  off  and  was  surprised,  or  professed  to  be.  He  told 
Smith  that  he  was  repaid  from  the  fact  that  he  had  kept 
his  mouth  closed  about  his  past,  his  changing  his  name, 
and  all  that.  In  conclusion,  he  threatened  to  tell  the 
world,  or  that  part  of  it  in  which  Smith  and  himself  were 
known.  Now,  if  Smith  had  told  all  this  in  the  beginning, 
it  would,  of  course,  have  been  different.  But,  having 
deferred  it  so  long,  he  naturally  hated  to  have  it  told 
and  flaunted  in  his  face  by  the  Negroes  here.  You  know, 
too,  how  Negroes  like  to  hear  anything,  envious  and 
spiteful  as  they  are  by  nature.  It  was  a  nasty  affair,  and 
to  hush  it  up,  Smith  let  the  bill  go  hang.  But  this  was 
not  to  be  the  end  of  it  by  any  means,  oh,  no!  This 
Negro  had  the  nerve  to  come  back  into  the  store  and  ask 
for  more  credit.  Then  Smith,  with  his  nigga  aroused, 
stood  his  ground.  The  Negro  then  got  drunk,  fighting 
drunk.  He  found  an  old  revolver  that  had  been  lost  for 
years  in  a  trash  heap,  and  ran  Smith  all  over  town.  It 
wouldn't  shoot,  of  course,  but  Smith  didn't  know  that. 
The  crowd  finally  got  around  the  Negro  and  held  him, 
while  he  raged  and  swore.  Smith  went  to  the  phone, 
declaring  he  was  going  to  call  the  officers.  The  Negro 
veiled  that  if  he  did— he  knew.  Smith  desisted,  but  then 
into  it  came  my  sister,  his  wife.  She  has  spirit  and  was 
now  thoroughly  aroused  and  with  a  big  forty-five  left- 


216  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

hand  wheeler,  she  sought  this  shine.  When  the  people 
that  were  holding  him  saw  her  coming,  they  turned  him 
lose  and  flew.  When  they  did,  she  began  to  shoot,  and 
shot  to  hit.  She  missed;  but  she  picked  the  dirt  all 
about  him,  and  he  did  some  running. 

"After  that,  the  Negro — he  had  been  doing  fairly  well 
outside  what  I  have  mentioned — began  to  go  down. 
Whiskey  and  craps  got  all  his  money,  and  then  he  parted 
with  his  wife.  But  he  still  had  it  in  for  Smith,  and  it  had 
come  to  Smith  and  me,  too,  that  he  intends  telling  it  all 
at  the  ball  game,  today.  Moreover,  that  he  will  kill  his 
wife  if  she  plays  ball  or  attempts  to,  today.  Smith's 
nigga  is  up,  and  he  is  going  to  the  ball  game,  and  if  that 
Negro  starts  anything  on  that  diamond,  look  out!" 

"I'm  afraid  of  these  Negroes  down  here  myself/'  said 
Wyeth.  "A  few  nights  ago,  I  was  standing  on  a  corner 
in  Effingham,  when  one  of  them  came  up  the  street 
slapping  his  wife  or  woman,  or  whatever  she  was,  some 
thing  outrageously.  I  felt  constrained  to  punch  him  in 
the  jaw,  the  brute,  especially  when  she  ran  around  a 
bunch  of  us  trying  to  escape  the  blows  he  was  raining  on 
her  face.  I  didn't,  and  some  time  later  I  was  talking 
with  a  cop  that  patrols  that  beat.  I  told  him  of  the 
incident.  'That's  nothing,'  he  said.  'I  started  to  punch 
him,'  I  said.  'You'd  better  not  punch  any  of  these 
Negroes,'  he  warned.  'They'll  shoot  you  down  like  a 
dog.  This  is  Effingham.' ' 

"Well,"  said  Beasely,  "I'm  going  to  the  game  myself 
to  have  a  hand  in  the  affair,  if  he  starts  anything. 
Wanta  go  'long?" 

Since  he  had  nothing  to  do,  he  decided  that  it  would 
be  a  good  outing  and  some  diversion,  so,  rising,  he  fol 
lowed.  As  they  started,  a  ragged,  dirty  Negro  rushed 
up.  He  wanted  Beasely,  being  unable  to  locate  Smith, 
to  let  him  have  ten  dollars  to  get  his  brother  out  of  jail, 
who  had  gotten  into  a  squabble  down  in  a  saloon  and  got 
run  in. 

"Let  him  stay  there  until  tomorrow,  and  we  won't 
have  to  get  him  put  but  once.  If  he  is  gotten  out  today, 
he's  liable  to  be  in  again  before  the  day  is  spent,"  replied 


BUT  SMITH  IS  NOT  HIS  REAL  NAME     217 

Beasely  carelessly.  The  other  went  his  way  with  mut- 
terings. 

They  had  not  gone  far  before  they  came  upon  another. 
He  had  a  load,  a  heavy  load.  So  heavy  that  he  could 
scarcely  make  it.  However,  with  a  superior  effort,  he 
managed  to  drag  his  feet  along,  and  join  them. 

"Abe  Thomas,"  remonstrated  Beasely.  "You  are  a 
disgrace  to  yourself  and  the  human  race."  The  other 
accepted  the  rebuke  in  good  nature.  He  declared,  that 
since  it  was  the  fourth,  he  was  entitled  by  the  law  of  the 
land  to  get  drunk,  and  convince  the  public  to  that  effect. 

"The  fourth  do'n'  come  but  once  a  yeah,"  he  said. 
"But  I'm  a  good  guy  all  the  time  'n'  all  the  time.  Fifty 
years  I've  been  in  this  world  and  don't  look  forty."  He 
didn't,  which  was  an  odd  thing,  thought  Wyeth. 

"Say,  Beasely,  lend  me  a  dollar!"  he  exclaimed. 
Wyeth  was  again  surprised;  for  Beasely,  without  a  word, 
but  a  laugh  full  of  humor,  drew  forth  a  silver  dollar,  and 
handed  it  over. 

As  they  walked  along  leisurely,  Wyeth  remarked 
about  the  crops,  which  did  not  appear  to  be  doing  much 
good  in  the  highlands. 

"You  know  why  that  is?"  said  their  companion,  wink 
ing  wisely.  "That's  because  all  this  land  about  here  is 
undermined,  and  the  water  goes  on  through." 

Wyeth  looked  at  him.  He  looked  back  at  Wyeth  and 
winked.  "You  are  philosophical  indeed,"  said  he.  " How 
far  is  it  to  the  mines  below?" 

"Three  hundred  feet,"  Beasely  replied. 

"And  between  that  is  all  kinds  of  rock,  hard  pan  and 
shale?" 

"Oh,  sure,"  replied  the  other;  "but  what  has  that  to 
do  with  it?" 

Wyeth  looked  at  him,  but  the  other  didn't  gather  what 
the  expression  meant,  so  he  said:  "Jok,  you  are  full." 
They  were  passing  into  a  cut,  and  he  saw  at  a  glance  the 
reason  for  the  plant  suffering.  About  two  to  six  inches 
from  the  surface  was  a  thick  layer  of  jip,  which,  as  he 
knew,  prevented  the  water  from  going  into  the  subsoil, 
to  come  up  when  the  sun  had  dried  the  surface,  and 


21S  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

furnish  nourishment  to  the  roots.  Further  argument  was 
not  necessary,  for,  as  they  came  put  of  the  cut,  a  saloon 
smiled  before  them,  and  into  this  their  companion  dis 
appeared. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  grounds,  thousands  had 
preceded  them,  and  the  same  was  black  with  people, 
enjoying  a  holiday.  The  diamond  had  been  cleared,  and 
preparations  were  in  order  for  opening  of  the  game. 
The  contestants  were  a  set  of  school  boys  and  girls,  and 
women,  in  fact,  any  girl  or  woman  that  could  be  prevailed 
upon  for  the  occasion.  The  sun,  now  in  the  west,  could 
be  seen  only  at  intervals,  as  it  hung  suspended  above 
the  heavy  treetops.  The  air  was  unusually  still  and 
humid.  The  heat  was  intense;  but,  notwithstanding  the 
fact,  the  future  American  Negro  seemed  to  be  getting  all 
that  a  holiday  afforded. 

Popcorn  and  cracker- jack,  lemonade  and  coca-cola, 
barbecue  and  fried  fish,  were  being  consumed  by  the 
crowd  in  every  direction  in  large  quantities,  and  all 
seemed  to  be  happy. 

At  last  the  preliminaries  were  over.  The  game  was 
called.  On  every  base,  in  the  pitcher's  box,  the  catchers, 
and  in  the  field,  stood  black  girls.  Gayly  they  flitted 
about,  and  caught  the  ball  cleverly,  as  it  was  thrown 
from  one  to  the  other. 

"Play  ball!"  called  the  umpire. 

Everyone  had  his  eye  upon  the  game.  A  strapping 
woman,  wound  up  like  a  professional,  and  let  drive  a 
swift  ball  that  went  far  to  the  right  of  a  left  hand  batter. 

"Ba-1-1  one!"  cried  the  umpire. 

"Frow  lak  a  ole  maid,"  cackled  a  big-mouthed  Negro, 
who  was  immediately  hooted  down. 

"St-r-i-k-e  one!"  cried  the  umpire,  slapping  his  thigh, 
giving  vent  to  a  big  laugh,  as  the  batter  swung  wildly 
at  the  ball  just  missed. 

"Dat  gal's  got  some  speed,  b'lieve  muh!"  cried  another 
Negro,  who  was  a  good  support. 

"Who  dat  gal?"  inquired  another,  at  this  point. 

"Do'n  you  know  'er?"  someone  else  replied.  "Dat'i 
Bobb  Lee's  wife.  Dey  is  pa'ted,  y'  know." 


BUT  SMITH  IS  NOT  HIS  REAL  NAME     219 

Wyeth  started.  Bobb  Lee's  wife!  Bobb  Lee  was  the 
Negro  Beasely  had  told  him  about.  .  .  .  And  he  had 
threatened  to  kill  her  if  she  played  ball  this  day.  She 
was  playing.  He  felt  a  strange  pulling  at  his  nerves  as 
he  watched  her,  and  his  imagination  began  to  play.  He 
was  afraid  of  these  Negroes.  Even  if  they  did  nothing, 
they  could,  so  far  as  he  had  learned,  be  depended  upon 
to  commit  murder.  No  one,  perhaps,  paid  much  atten 
tion  to  a  Negro's  threat;  but  he  didn't  feel  just  right  in 
the  stomach.  A  chilly  feeling  was  creeping  upward  and 
held  him.  He  looked  about  him.  For  a  moment  he  had 
forgotten  the  game.  The  men  were  now  on  the  bases, 
while  the  girls  were  swinging  in  many  ways  at  the  ball. 
The  wife  of  Bobb  Lee  was  there  at  the  bat.  Around  him 
the  crowd  watched  her  closely,  expectantly.  He  did  like 
wise. 

"B-a-1-1  one!"  cried  the  umpire.  The  woman  was  a 
stout  Negress,  with  square,  broad  hips,  and  was  con 
spicuous  in  the  green  uniform.  Two  balls  and  one  strike 
were  against  her,  when  the  fourth  came  whizzing  across 
the  plate.  She  struck  it  with  terrific  force,  that  sent  it 
just  over  the  heads  of  all  and  beyond  the  fielders,  making 
a  clean  home  run,  as  well  as  bringing  in  two  girls  that 
were  on  bases.  The  cheering  that  followed  was  deafening. 
For  a  time  Sidney  forgot  the  threats  of  the  bad  Negro. 

Again  the  wife  of  Bob  Lee  was  pitching.  More  speed 
had  developed  since  last  she  held  the  ball,  and  she  was 
apparently  more  clever.  She  hurled  the  ball  across  the 
plate  so  swiftly,  that  the  crowd  could  hardly  see  it,  nor 
could  the  batters,  whom,  one  by  one  she  fanned.  Two 
balls  and  two  strikes  she  had  on  the  last  one.  Wyeth's 
gaze,  wandering  across  the  diamond,  observed  John 
Smith  standing  to  the  other  side,  and  again  the  words 
of  Beasely  came  to  his  memory.  He  wished  the  thought 
and  the  threat  would  not  so  persist.  He  tried  to  con 
centrate  his  mind  on  the  game,  but  the  words  lingered. 
During  his  whole  life,  Sidney  now  recalled,  he  was 
peculiarly  given  to  predestination.  If  he  had  not  seen 
anyone  he  had  known  for  some  time,  and  happened  to 
meet  him,  he  could  always  recall  that  he  had  just  thought 


220  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

of  him  a  few  days  before,  or  it  might  have  been  only  a 
few  hours  before.  Strangely,  as  he  watched  the  game, 
there  came  to  him  a  premonition  that  something  was 
going  to  happen.  He  felt  it  so  strongly  that  he  stood 
waiting  for  it.  It  was  only  a  question  of  a  little  while. 

The  wife  of  Bob  Lee  had  raised  her  arm  and  was 
winding  up  for  the  last  throw,  when  suddenly,  from 
across  the  field  in  the  crowd,  came  a  cry  as  of  some  one 
mad,  enraged.  In  the  still,  humid  air,  the  cry  of  a  woman 
resounded,  and  fell  upon  the  ears  of  the  crowd  like  a  cry 
of  death.  There  was  a  shot,  and  so  quiet  did  every  one 
appear  at  the  moment,  that  the  noise  it  made  sounded 
like  a  cannon.  A  woman  rushed  upon  the  diamond,  and 
fell  prone  on  her  face,  with  a  last  scream  that  disturbed 
the  quiet. 

Clouds  had  been  gathering  overhead  for  some  time, 
and  now  they  overcast  the  skies.  The  sunlight,  with  all 
its  brightness  of  a  few  minutes  ago,  had  faded;  it  became 
so  dark  that  the  people  could  scarcely  see  across  the 
diamond.  Heavy  peals  of  thunder  added  now  to  the 
darkness,  while  flashes  of  lightning  struck  electrically  all 
about.  The  crowd  stood  awestruck.  The  woman  in  the 
box  had  lowered  her  arm,  and  was  looking  wild-eyed  at 
the  woman  who  had  fallen  prostrate  at  her  feet.  And 
then,  through  the  still  air  came  again  the  cry  of  the 
beast. 

"Ah  tole  yu'  'f  yu'  played  ball  ag'in  'ah'd  kill  yu'. 
Ah've  killed  yu'  doity  sista,  in  the'  stands  you,  'n'  the, 
is  John  Smith  who  run  away  frum  Palmetto,  Geo'gi',  'n 
whose  real  name's  Tom  Rollins!"  And  with  that,  the 
woman  gave  a  long  lingering  cry  that  frightened  all  those 
about.  They  turned  in  one  great  mass,  the  revolver 
sounded  another  shot,  and  with  scarcely  a  groan,  the 
woman  staggered  for  a  moment,  and  fell  to  the  ground 
dead.  For  just  a  second  it  seemed,  the  crowd,  tearing 
wildly  about,  halted  and  turned  their  eyes  upon  the  two 
dead  women.  And  as  they  did  so,  the  murderer  turned 
wildly  in  the  direction  of  where  Smith  had  stood,  but  he 
was  gone.  In  a  blind  fury,  the  drunken  brute  whirled 
around  dazed,  yelling:  "  Wha'  is  he!  Damn  him!  Wha' 
is  he!" 


BUT  SMITH  IS  NOT  HIS  REAL  NAME     221 

"I'm  heah,  you  beast!"  roared  Smith,  in  a  terrible 
voice.  The  other  had  just  time  to  see  him,  but  too  late 
to  do  further  murder.  John  Smith  was  on  him  in  an 
instant,  and  all  the  strength  of  his  powerful  frame 
seemed  to  come  to  him  in  that  moment.  He  snatched 
the  smoking  weapon  from  the  hand  of  the  brute,  and, 
raising  it  to  the  length  of  his  large  arm,  while  the  other, 
at  last  sensitive  to  the  moment,  saw  it  as  it  lingered  one 
brief  instant,  with  eyes,  the  sight  of  which  Sidney  Wyeth 
did  not  soon  forget,  it  fell,  crushing  the  skull.  A  mad 
herd  now,  the  crowd  rushed  upon  the  fallen  creature 
and  did  the  rest. 

Just  then  the  heavens  opened  up  with  a  mighty  crash 
of  thunder,  and  there  came  a  flash  of  lightning  that  made 
trees  tremble,  while  the  rain  came  down  in  torrents. 

Sidney  returned  to  the  city  by  the  first  car.  The 
incident  rose  before  him  again  and  again,  as  the  car 
crept  along  in  the  downpour.  He  had  seen  the  first 
murder  of  his  life,  which,  however,  was  an  almost  daily 
occurrence  in  Effingham.  When  he  reached  his  room 
and  related  the  incident,  it  caused  less  excitement  than 
when  he  once  witnessed  a  gambling  raid  and  related  it. 
No  one  took  murder  seriously  in  Effingham. 

"They  kill  a  nigga  every  day  on  an  average  in  this 
town,"  grinned  Moore.  When  he  read  the  papers  the 
following  morning,  he  had  about  given  'up  finding  it  at 
all,  when  his  eyes  came  across  a  small  paragraph  in  the 
corner,  reporting  that  a  drunken  Negro  had  killed  his 
wife  and  sister-in-law,  which  added  to  the  list  of  casual 
ties,  making  eleven  for  the  day  in  Effingham.  All  were 
homicides.  No  deaths  from  other  sources  were  reported. 

As  Sidney  Wyeth  now  saw  it,  the  people  might  have 
prosperity,  and  they  might  have  happiness;  likewise, 
they  might  suffer  reverses  and  be  in  hard  straights  for  a 
time;  but  of  one  thing  there  seemed  a  certainty,  that  as 
long  as  whiskey  was  available,  crime  would  be  prevalent 
in  Effingham. 

Sidney  Wyeth  had  never  voted  for  prohibition.  As  he 
saw  it  now  in  Attalia,  where  it  was  not  sold  legally,  and 


222  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

in  Effingham,  where  it  had  this  permit,  there  seemed  but 
one  conclusion.  Only  when  they  stopped  making  it, 
would  these  ignorant,  semi-barbarous  creatures  quit 
drinking  it. 

And  thus  we  find  conditions  in  one  of  our  great  Amer 
ican  cities,  where  there  is  forty  per  cent  of  illiteracy 
among  two-fifths  of  the  populace. 

Having  sent  for  a  considerable  consignment  of  books, 
and,  due  to  the  inability  to  collect  from  a  number  who 
spent  their  money  on  the  fourth,  Sidney  found  his  finances 
depleted.  Room  rent,  by  paying  in  advance  was  due  the 
following  Monday,  so,  taking  himself  to  one  of  his  sub 
scribers  among  the  servants,  he  was  able  to  collect  only 
a  dollar  that  day.  Half  of  this  he  divided  with  his  land 
lady,  promising  to  pay  her  the  remainder  on  the  morrow. 
He  did  so,  but  John  Moore  desired  to  question  in  regard 
to  the  same.  The  truth  of  it  was  that  John  Moore 
wanted  the  dollar,  and  had  figured  on  it,  in  order  to 
shoot  craps  on  Saturday  night,  as  was  his  usual  custom. 
So  John  came  into  the  room  where  Sidney  sat  reading. 
It  happened  that  Wyeth  was  in  no  pleasant  frame  of 
mind,  and,  calling  was  thus  not  in  order  that  evening. 
Perhaps  John  Moore  did  not  know  this,  but  he  did  a 
few  minutes  later.  He  wished  to  know  what  Wyeth  was 
going  to  do  about  the  rent. 

Wyeth  looked  at  him.  It  wasn't  a  very  pleasant  look, 
to  say  the  least.  And  Wyeth  was  one  of  these  creatures 
who  could  not  stand  to  be  dunned.  Since  he  had  already 
made  arrangement  with  the  real  person,  he  regarded 
Moore  out  of  eyes  now  that  narrowed  with  anger.  He 
said  something,  sharp  and  quick,  and  stinging.  There 
upon,  a  storm  ensued. 

"I  aised  you  a  civil  question,"  complained  Moore. 

"And  I  tell  you  that  I  have  already  arranged  with  the 
landlady  regarding  the  rent,  and  don't  want  any  argu 
ment  with  you  I" 

"Then  I  ais  you  to  git  yo'  things  and  get  out!"  cried 
Moore,  with  an  air  of  finality. 

"And  I  tell  you  that  I  will  do  no  such  thing;   more- 


"  BUT  SMITH  IS  NOT  HIS  REAL  NAME  "    223 

over,  you,  insofar  as  I'm  concerned,"  cried  Wyeth  heat 
edly,  "can  go  to  Hell!" 

"Look  out,  look  out!"  cried  Moore.  "I'm  a-comin', 
I'm  a-comin'." 

"Not  very  fast  as  I  can  see,  standing  there  in  the  door 
way,"  said  Wyeth,  now  composed,  and  reseating  himself 
from  where  he  had  risen.  And  yet  he  felt,  as  he  had 
never  felt  before,  like  fighting — with  his  fists. 

"Hole  me  Mary,  hole  me!"  cried  Moore,  moving 
many  ways — in  the  doorway.  The  other  waited — in  vain. 

"Come  ova'  he'  from  Attalia,  a  bad  nigga,  'n'  tellin' 
me  what  I  ain'  go'n  do  'n'  mah  house!"  he  cried,  now 
derisively.  "Stay!  Yes,  stay,  'n'  be  killed,  'cause  'f  you 
sleep  in  this  house  t'night,  you  go'n  sleep  ova'  mah  dead 
body." 

"Oh,  but  you're  an  awful  liar,"  smiled  Sidney  grimly. 
He  arose  from  his  chair  and  moved  in  the  direction  of 
Moore,  whereupon  that  worthy  moved  in  the  opposite 
direction.  "A  Negro  like  you  ain't  going  to  fight  any 
one,  and  talk  about  your  dead  body!  Hump!  If  you 
had  any  idea  I  was  going  to  kill  you,  you'd  be  a  mile 
away  by  this  time  and  still  running.  As  it  is,  I  am 
going  to  stay  in  this  house  until  I  get  ready  to  leave,  or 
at  least  until  I  am  ordered  out  by  the  landlady."  With 
this,  he  jumped  forward  quickly  and  caught  Moore  by 
the  nose,  which  was,  to  say  the  least,  a  difficult  task. 
He  pinched  it  hard,  and  then,  with  well  directed  licks, 
he  slapped  his  face  with  his  open  palm.  Then,  giving 
his  nose  another  pinch  that  made  the  creature  scream 
with  pain,  he  pushed  him  with  such  force  that  he  fell 
backward  into  the  other  room.  A  moment  later,  Sidney 
slammed  the  door,  and,  resuming  his  seat,  picked  up 
the  book  and  began  reading. 

They  were  good  friends  ever  after. 


CHAPTER  TEN 

"When  You  Have  Been  Grass-Widowed,  It's  Different" 

"Oh,  is  it  Mr.  Wyeth?  How-do,  Mr.  Wyeth.  Come 
right  in  and  be  seated.  I  shall  be  in  presently."  Where 
upon,  for  the  fraction  of  a  second,  Miss  Palmer  gave  him 
a  smile  that  was  bewitching. 

It  was  Sunday,  and  a  beautiful  cool  day  in  July.  A 
rain  had  fallen  the  night  before,  which  made  the  air  cool 
and  radiant.  Just  a  day  for  an  outing.  To  go  forth 
into  the  forest  on  a  day  like  this,  in  company  with  the 
lady  of  his  choice,  was  a  pleasure  all  men  could  wish. 
And  to  go  forth  today,  to  the  forest  about  Effingham, 
which  could  be  seen  from  almost  any  part  of  the  city, 
was,  to  say  the  least,  a  treat.  From  the  summit  of  any 
of  the  many  points,  the  observer  could  gaze  down  full 
upon  all  that  makes  Effingham. 

And  it  was  for  such  a  purpose  that  Sidney  Wyeth 
called  upon  Miss  Annie  Palmer  that  day. 

Miss  Palmer  had  been  good  to  him.  And  he,  a  man  of 
experience  and  adversities,  was  not  the  kind  of  man  to 
be  indifferent  to  her  courtesy.  And,  besides,  Miss  Palmer 
was  fairly  well  endowed  with  the  art  of  making  it  pleas 
ant.  Especially  was  this  so  when  it  happened  to  be  a 
young  man  who  had  captivated  her,  and,  apparently, 
without  any  effort  on  his  part. 

It  is  said  that  curiosity  is  the  inspiration  of  invention, 
and  that  women,  although  with  no  great  record  as  in 
ventors,  cannot  stand  to  be  held  in  doubt.  Sidney 
Wyeth  had  aroused  Miss  Palmer.  It  was  whispered  that 
other  men  had  done  so  before,  but  no  one  spoke  ill  of 
Miss  Palmer.  It  was  so  told  here  and  there  that  she 
desired  to  marry.  Miss  Palmer  found  it  difficult  to  keep 
Sidney  out  of  her  thoughts;  dally,  hourly  and,  sometimes 
she  sighed,  it  seemed  minutely.  So,  when  he  had  sug- 

224 


"GRASS-WIDOWED— IT'S  DIFFERENT"    225 

gested  an  outing,  she  had  accepted  with  all  the  grace  of 
which  she  was  capable.  It  had  been  arranged  for  this 
day.  She  had  worked  hard  every  day  preceding  it,  and 
had  sold  a  number  of  books.  As  we  now  know,  Miss 
Palmer  was  the  mother  of  a  very  young  son,  and  she 
had  always  had  to  work  to  care  for  him,  herself,  and  her 
mother,  who  was  somewhat  of  an  invalid.  Perhaps  this 
was  the  best  excuse  Miss  Palmer  had  for  not  having  re 
married.  It  was  a  plausible  one,  no  one  could  deny.  It 
sufficed  to  arouse  sympathy  for  her,  and  she  had  many 
friends  who  unhesitatingly  spoke  of  her  in  such  terms. 

"Miss  Palmer  has  a  hard  time,"  said  one. 

"What  kind  of  a  deal — that  is,  what  kind  of  a  husband 
was  the  man  she  married?" 

"A  half  white  nigga  from  Ohio,  whose  parents  made 
him  mistreat  her,  because  she  was  not  brighter  in  color. 
They  never  forgave  him  for  marrying  anything  but  a 
'high  yellow/  So  they,  through  their  treatment  of  her, 
snubbing  her  whenever  they  could,  simply  broke  them 
up.  She  was  a  good  girl,"  so  everybody  said  about  Miss 
Palmer,  "and  she  worked  night  and  day  to  help  him, 
but  he  drank.  His  parents  kept  up  the  game  of  spoiling 
him,  even  after  he  was  the  father  of  her  child.  So,  in 
the  end,  when  there  was  nothing  else  for  her  to  do,  she 
had  asked  for,  and  was  duly  granted  a  divorce.  That 
ended  it.  The  school  board,  although  they  were  over 
run  with  applications  from  multitudes  of  colored  girls, 
to  teach  in  the  city  schools  (because  teaching  is  about 
the  only  thing  they  can  get  to  do  to  make  some  money 
and  a  living  for  themselves),  had  reinstated  her,  and  she 
went  back  to  teaching,  after  four  years  of  unhappy 
married  life." 

It  was  thus  Sidney  Wyeth  had  found  her.  Miss  Palmer 
was  a  human  being  with  a  heart  that  cried  silently  for 
the  love  of  a  man,  as  all  other  women's  hearts  do,  who 
happen  not  to  be  so  fortunate  as  to  have  one.  She  had 
been  to  school,  and  graduated  from  a  normal  academy, 
that  taught  English  as  far  as  it  goes,  and,  likewise,  com 
pelled  the  girls  to  learn  how  to  cook,  sew  and  save.  Miss 
Palmer  was  mistress  in  all  these  arts,  and  some  more. 

15 


226  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

It  was  her  delight  to  show  them  by  a  demonstration, 
whenever  she  could.  She  had  proven  all  this  to  Sidney 
Wyeth,  and  he  had  thought  it  practical  in  her.  He  had 
said  as  much,  but  he  would  have  said  as  much  to  any 
other,  no  doubt.  And  of  the  many  good  things  we  now 
know  of  Miss  Palmer,  let  us  not  forget  that  she  was 
selfish  to  a  degree. 

Unfortunately,  many  of  us  are.  But  when  Miss  Palmer 
became  the  recipient  of  such  kind  words  from  the  lips 
of  this  man  of  mystery,  for  as  such  she  regarded  him, 
and  believed  it,  she  was  subtly  delighted.  So  she  had 
done  all  she  could  as  a  saleswoman  of  the  book  she  was 
positive  he  had  written,  to  prove  further  her  ability  to 
help  him.  (?)  Today  they  would  be  all  alone,  together. 
She  had  looked  forward  to  the  same  with  all  the  anxiety 
of  the  anxious,  and  the  day  had  come  at  last.  And  such 
a  day! 

She  dressed  in  her  best  for  the  occasion.  We  shall  not 
attempt  to  describe  her;  but  when  she  appeared  at  the 
end  of  an  hour,  she  was  a  delight  to  observe.  "Indeed!" 
exclaimed  Wyeth  frankly,  "I  didn't  know  you  could 
look  so  well!" 

"Why  are  you  flat?"  she  complained,  with  a  frown; 
and  then  she  added  softly:  "You  could  be  otherwise." 

"We  will  catch  the  Tidewater  and  get  off  at  Jewell 
Junction,  and  take  the  Relay.  That  will  take  us  to  the 
summit  of  Baldin  Knob.  From  there  you  can  see  every 
thing  this  state  possesses  for  fifteen  miles,"  she  said,  as 
they  walked  cheerfully  in  the  direction  of  the  car  line. 

Never  had  either  experienced  such  a  delightful  ride,  as 
the  heavy  tidewater  cars  gave  them  that  morning.  The 
Relay  unloaded  them  forty  minutes  later  at  the  highest 
peak  of  which  the  Red  Mountains  boast.  Below  lay 
Effingham,  the  iron  city,  a  medley  of  smoke  and  many 
little  points.  Only  the  blast  of  the  furnaces,  and  the 
heavy  smoke  they  belched  forth,  met  their  gaze,  as  they 
saw  it  now.  It  seemed  hardly  possible  that  it  was  a 
city  of  so  many  thousands,  it  seemed  so  small  at  this 
distance.  A  mass  of  uneven  timber  appeared  all  about 
and  below  them,  and  far  away  were  a  thousand  peaks. 


"GRASS-WIDOWED— IT'S  DIFFERENT"    227 

Broken  by  hundreds  of  ravines  and  draws,  that  split  and 
tore  the  mighty  range,  they  saw  the  city  beyond.  A 
dull  haze  as  of  Indian  summer  hung  in  the  distance,  as 
their  gaze  sought  the  horizon. 

Then  they  walked  down  a  slope  to  a  spot  they  had 
seen.  She  stepped  on  a  rock  that  lay  buried  beneath 
many  leaves,  and  turned  her  ankle  so  severely,  that  he 
feared  it  had  been  sprained.  It  hadn't;  but,  as  a  pre 
caution,  he  took  her  arm,  and  that,  perforce,  brought 
them  closer  together.  Thus  they  walked,  until,  at  the 
foot  of  a  pine,  lay  a  fallen  tree  conveniently.  They  sat 
themselves  thereon,  and,  leaning  their  backs  against  the 
tree,  for  a  minute,  possibly  more,  they  heard  their  own 
breathing. 

After  saying  many  things  that  meant  nothing,  she  said: 

"Now,  you  are  going  to  tell  me  all  about  yourself 
today,  aren't  you?"  She  ended  this  beautifully,  and 
waited  likewise.  His  reply  was  not  gallant,  if  such  it 
could  be;  but  he  merely  added: 

"There  is  little  to  tell,  Miss  Palmer— so  little,  I'm 
sure  telling  it  would  be  dull  for  you  to  listen  to." 

"You  have  beautiful  ways  of  saying  anything,"  she 
said,  and  gave  him  her  best  smile.  He  looked  at  her 
now,  but  without  any  apparent  enthusiasm.  His  smile 
was  a  little  tired  and  weary  and  sad.  Very  often  he  was 
this  way. 

"Do  you  know,"  Miss  Palmer  now  said,  "you  have 
impressed  me  wonderfully." 

"I  didn't,  I'm  sure;  but  you  are  complimentary." 
He  was  now  a  mite  more  cheerful.  "In  what  way,  I  beg, 
have  I  impressed  you?  In  that  I  can  sell  books?" 

"I  don't  mean  that,  and  you  know  I  do  not,"  she 
pouted.  "And  you  can  be  so  innocent,  when  you  want 
to  be.  Oh,  you  are  artful.  But  I  mean,  if  I  must  say  it 
and  then  explain  why,  there  is  something  about  you 
that  is  unusual.  You  are  in  disguise,  going  through  the 
country  studying  people,  yes,  people  and  what  they  are, 
have  been  and  are  likely  to  be."  She  was  thoughtful 
now,  as  she  sat  in  serious  mood  for  some  time.  Presently, 
she  said: 


228  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"I've  been  reading  that  book,  and,  of  course,  I  under 
stand  you  better.  Is  all  that  you  say  in  it  true?" 
She  was  serious  now,  and  anxious  too.  She  waited  eagerly 
for  him  to  speak. 

He  laughed.  Then  he  said  nothing  in  the  affirmative, 
but  indulged  in  words  concerning  other  topics. 

"You  are  more  than  a  book  agent.  You  have,  at 
least,  been  a  man  of  means.  Really,  I  would  be  pleased 
to  know  from  your  own  lips,"  she  now  sighed. 

"I  wish  we  could  talk  of  something  else,  that  would 
be  more  interesting.  Cannot  you  suggest  something?" 
he  turned  to  her  now  appealingly. 

"I  cannot.  Yourself  is  the  most  interesting  thing  I 
care  to  talk  about.  I  have  been  thinking  of  the  terrible 
secret  you  disclose  in  the  book.  Won't  you  please  tell 
me  if  it  is  all  true?" 

"I  suppose  if  the  book  is  published  as  a  true  story, 
then  it  must  be  so,"  he  said  evasively. 

"And  she  was  a  weak  woman.  No  strength  and  con 
viction;  nothing  to  protect  a  home.  You  and  she  will 
not  remain  as  you  are,  will  you?"  Silence.  "There  is 
nothing  the  matter  with  you — and  her.  I  sympathize 
with  this  fellow."  Miss  Palmer  was  more  serious  now. 
"Because,  apparently,  he  wanted,  tried  to  do  the  right 
thing,  and  was  not  allowed.  ...  I  know  somebody  else 
that  wished  to  do  likewise,  and  was  not  allowed.  .  .  . 
Life  is  a  strange  thing,  isn't  it?" 

"Indeed  so,"  he  agreed. 

"And  on  this  pilgrimage  you  study  the  lives  of  others, 
many  others,  and  it  reveals  so  much  to  you  that  would, 
could  not  be  possible,  otherwise?" 

He  agreed  with  her  again. 

"And  on  this  pilgrimage  you  have  met  women,  and  you 
have  studied  them  and  their  way  of  seeing  things?" 

"Possibly.    They  are  all  in  the  same  category." 

"Yes;  but  somebody  said:  'I  bet  that  fellow  has  so 
many  girls!'  I  didn't  agree  with  them.  I  don't  think 
you  have  any;  you  are  too  preoccupied  to  give  them 
serious  thought.  Perhaps  that  is  why  the  girl  allowed 
herself  to  be  taken  away.  ..." 


"GRASS-WIDO WED— IT'S  DIFFERENT"    229 

He  now  looked  at  her.  His  lips,  for  one  moment,  had 
started  to  speak,  and  then  he  seemed  to  think  better  of 
it,  and  said  nothing. 

"Everyone  I  sell  the  book  to  cries  when  they  have 
read  it:  'If  I  had  been  that  fellow,  I'd  have  kicked  that 
old  preacher  into  Hades.'  It's  what  you  tell  in  the  last 
part  of  the  book  that  arouses  the  people.  But  they  all 
think  he  acted  with  poor  judgment  in  the  end;  but  if  he 
hadn't  allowed  that  to  come  to  pass,  I  would  never  have 
known  you."  Miss  Palmer  was  tantalizing. 

"Out  in  this  Rosebud  Country,  of  which  the  story  is 
told,  are  there  no  colored  people?" 

"None." 

"I  should  think  it  would  be  dreadfully  lonesome." 

"Why  so?    The  white  people  are  kind  and  sociable." 

"Yes,  but  I  would  prefer  my  kind.  Still,  I  suppose 
if  one  lived  there  and  had  their  all  there,  it  would  be 
different." 

"Yes,"  he  agreed,  "it  would  be  different." 

"You  will,  no  doubt,  marry  one  of  the  many  girls 
you  meet  before  you  return,  and  then  live  happily  ever 
afterwards." 

"  That  is  nice  to  listen  to.  Nice  girls,  that  is,  girls  who 
are  willing  to  sacrifice  to  an  end  that  would  help  both, 
are,  to  say  the  least,  hard  to  find." 

"Yes,  in  a  sense;  but  there  are  plenty.  And  all  want 
husbands.  Of  course,  when  you  have  been  widowed, 
grass-widowed,  it's  different.  .  .  ." 

"Well,  yes;  but  I  see  no  reason,  if  she  is  the  right 
kind  of  girl,  why  she  cannot  re-marry  and  be  happy  in 
the  end." 

"Oh,  you  don't,"  she  essayed.  "Well,  there  is.  A 
woman  is  never  regarded  as  the  same.  The  looks  she 
gets  are  not  like  the  ones  bestowed  upon  her  when  she, 
or  before  she  married.  They  are  looks — looks  that  are 
not  honest,"  she  sighed.  He  was  silent. 

"And  the  men  are  the  cause  of  it.  All  of  it.  Some 
times  I  hate  men." 

He  saw  her  now,  calmly.  She  was  uneasy  under  the 
look  he  gave  her.  And  then  he  was  silent  again.  She 
went  on: 


230  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"Of  course,  there  are  some  that  are  different.  Your 
self,  for  instance/' 

"In  what  way?" 

"So  many  I  hardly  like  to  say.  So  unassuming,  for 
one.  And  then  you — oh  I  won't  say  it." 

"Please  do." 

"Not  until  you  have  told  me  more  about  yourself. 
Has  it  occurred  to  you  that  you  have  told  me  nothing, 
absolutely  nothing  about  yourself?"  She  was  looking  at 
him  now.  He  winced. 

"Of  course,  if  a  woman  is — is — well,  easy  enough  to 
go  into  the  mountains  and  on  an  outing  with  the  man — a 
man  who  has  told  her  nothing  of  himself,  then,  it — he 
cannot  be  censured."  She  watched  a  pine  squirrel  now 
that  played  near,  and  who  regarded  them  out  of  eyes 
that  made  Miss  Palmer  feel  guilty. 

"You  are  like  a  stone  wall  when  it  conies  to  secrets. 
Did  you  ever  really  love  anyone?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  you  don't  mean  it!"  she  cried  in  feigned  sur 
prise.  "Who  was  it?" 

"You  would  be  no  wiser  if  I  told  you." 

At  this  moment,  a  blast  in  a  mine  near,  which  they 
did  not  see,  went  off.  It  broke  the  silence  so  sharply, 
that  both  sat  quickly  upright.  In  doing  so,  their  hands 
met.  His  clasped  hers.  In  a  moment  the  tension  was 
released,  but  the  hands  were  not.  Slowly  their  hands 
clasped  each  others  tighter.  He  was  in  some  way  con 
scious  of  the  fact,  while  she  was  dreamy.  He  looked  by 
chance  into  her  eyes,  and  they  were  more  dreamy  still. 
Their  shoulders  touched.  She  sat  at  his  left,  and  it 
happened  singularly  to  be  his  right  hand  that  held  hers. 
In  that  moment  they  seemed  to  feel  lonely,  very  lonely. 
Both  had  suffered — and,  to  a  degree,  their  suffering  had 
been  similar.  To  give  up  and  to  be  human,  uncon 
ventionally  so  for  just  a  little  while,  seemed  a  mad  desire. 
She  swayed  perceptibly.  Suddenly  his  left  arm  stole 
about  her  waist  and  encircled  her  body.  Mechanically 
he  looked  down,  and  into  her  eyes,  that  were  upturned. 
They  seemed  to  tell  the  secret  behind.  To  be  loved  for 


"GRASS-WIDOWED— IT'S  DIFFERENT"    231 

one  minute  was  what  they  asked.  He  lingered  a  moment, 
and  then  his  head  went  down.  When  it  had  retained  its 
former  position  and  was  erect,  he  had  kissed  Miss  Palmer. 

He  was  standing  now,  and  was  looking  down  upon 
Effingham.  It  lay  silent  and  gray  from  where  he  saw  it. 
In  that  moment  he  wanted  to  be  back  there.  He  felt 
guilty.  He  turned  and  beheld  Miss  Palmer.  He  felt 
more  guilty  than  before.  She  lay  against  the  tree  with 
her  face  turned  the  other  way.  He  felt  very  sorry  for 
her  then.  Yes,  Miss  Palmer  would,  he  believed,  do  the 
right  thing.  She  would  be  glad  to  do  the  right  thing. 
Oh,  she  had  had  her  troubles.  And  Sidney  Wyeth  knew 
that  when  people  had  suffered,  especially  when  it  had 
been  their  great  ambition  to  do  the  right  thing  and  be 
happy,  they  would  go  through  eternity  to  make  happi 
ness  possible.  He  spoke  now. 

"Don't  you  think  we  had  better  be  going,  Miss 
Palmer? "  She  heard  him,  and  his  voice  was  kind,  she 
thought.  She  rose,  and  together  they  went  back  over 
the  hill  and  caught  the  Relay. 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

"I'm  Worried  About  Mildred" 

"Wilson,  I'm  worried.  I'm  worried  about  Mildred. 
Something  is  haunting  that  girl.  Something  has  been 
haunting  her  for  days.  She  says  nothing,  of  course;  but 
I  can  see,  I  can't  help  but  see.  She  is  worried  almost  to 
insanity."  So  Constance  said  to  her  brother,  some  days 
after  Mildred  met  the  man  who  saw  her  in  Cincinnati. 

"I  wonder  what  it  c&n  be,"  said  he,  thoughtfully. 

"I'd  give  anything  to  know,"  she  sighed.  "The 
only  thing  I  know  is  that  she  is  worried.  I  dare  not  ask 
her.  She  is  not  inviting  in  her  demeanor,  when  it  comes 
to  confidences.  She  seems  to  be  looking  for  something, 
simply  uneasy  always,  and  hesitant.  Some  days,  she 
seems  to  dislike  to  go  canvassing;  in  fact,  for  some  time 
now,  she  has  been  nervous  every  time  she  ventures  out." 

"I  wonder  whether  it  would  not  be  advisable  to  ask 
her  to  lay  off  a  few  days." 

"I  have  thought  of  that,"  said  she;  "but  she  has  so 
many  deliveries  to  make  that  she  is  almost  compelled  to 
go  out  every  day.  And  then,  if  what  she  fears  is  to 
happen,  I'm  sure  she  would  be  more  worried  if  she 
stayed  in." 

"I'm  willing  to  do  anything  to  help  Mildred."  She 
looked  at  him,  but  they  were  both  too  preoccupied  to 
take  notice  of  the  fact  that  he  had  called  her  by  her 
first  name. 

"The  only  time  I  can  seem  to  get  her  away  from 
that  worried,  tired  expression,  is  when  I  play.  She 
listens  and  becomes,  at  least  for  a  time,  oblivious  to  her 
troubles." 

By  day,  Mildred,  when  she  was  canvassing,  hourly 
expected  to  meet  again  the  man  whose  recognition  had 

232 


"I'M  WORRIED  ABOUT  MILDRED "       233 

frightened  her.  But  the  days  went  by  without  further 
encounter,  and  when  she  failed  to  meet  him,  she  began 
to  relax.  She  was  worried  constantly,  but  she  was 
relieved  after  two  weeks.  The  fright  had  passed,  and  she 
was  cheerful  again,  much  to  the  relief  of  her  two  friends. 
It  had  pained  her  to  see  that  both  were  obviously  worried 
on  her  account.  And  she  respected  them,  because  they 
were  considerate  enough  not  to  ask  her  questions  that 
would  have  annoyed  her. 

"You  sang  that  beautifully,  Miss  Latham,"  said 
Wilson,  one  afternoon,  when  she  left  the  piano,  after 
singing  a  song  that  had  been  introduced  lately  into 
church  services;  and  which,  while  sentimental,  never 
theless  possessed  more  thrill  than  the  average. 

"Do  you  think  I  can  satisfy  the  congregation  now?" 
she  asked  sweetly.  She  had  been  practicing  it  for  several 
afternoons. 

"I  should  say  you  could,"  he  cried,  enthusiastically. 
"You  could  satisfy  any  congregation,  much  less  our 
little  crowd."  He  looked  sorrowful,  as  he  said  this.  She 
understood.  The  great  majority  did  not  attend  his 
services.  They  went  to  the  big  Baptist  church  two 
blocks  away.  Many  of  them  even  smiled,  when  they 
passed  his  little  church  and  observed  the  few  people 
sitting  therein.  Mildred  sympathised  with  him,  because 
she  realized  that  he  was  a  courageous  young  man,  willing 
to  go  to  any  extent,  so  far  as  effort  was  concerned,  in 
order  to  help  those  about  him.  They  needed  it  too, 
these  black  people. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  so  kind  that  he  choked,  "you  will 
have  a  larger  church  some  day.  I  am  confident  you 
will — I  know  you  will."  And  she  meant  all  she  said.  "In 
time  the  people  will  come  to  appreciate  your  efforts. 
As  it  is  now,  they  don't  think  deep  enough  to  do  so. 
They  want  sermons,  as  yet,  that  make  them  feel  by 
merely  listening;  whereas,  it  is  necessary  to  study  what 
you  say.  .  .  .  That  makes  it  difficult  now.  When  the 
people  become  more  intelligent,  more  practical,  and  more 
thoughtful,  they  will  appreciate  religion  in  a  practical 
sense."  He  was  overwhelmed  with  gratitude,  as  he 


234  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

heard  these  words.  For  a  moment  he  couldn't  speak. 
He  felt  the  tears  come. 

"You  are  so  kind,  Miss  Latham.  You  seem  to  under 
stand,  and  see  below  the  surface.  And  what  you  have 
said  is  timely.  I  am  one,  you  may  be  sure,  who  ap 
preciates  it."  He  stopped  here. 

A  choking,  which  he  didn't  wish  her  to  notice,  made  it 
necessary.  She  was  aware  of  the  gratitude,  the  sincere 
gratitude  in  his  tone,  and  her  sympathy  went  out  to  him 
more  than  ever.  As  she  saw  him  sitting  there,  with  head 
bowed  and  face  hid,  he  seemed  his  mother's  boy.  She 
felt  strangely  that  other  part.  Impulsively,  she  advanced 
to  where  he  sat  by  the  window,  with  the  sunlight  stream 
ing  in  upon  him.  In  the  bright,  soft  light,  his  curly  hair 
shone,  and  seemed  more  beautiful  than  she  had  noticed 
it  before.  She  laid  her  hand  upon  it.  An  hour  ago,  she 
would  not,  could  not  have  dreamed  she  would  do  this. 
And  then  she  spoke  in  words,  the  kindest,  he  felt,  he  had 
ever  heard. 

"There,  now.  It  will  be  all  right.  Just  give  yourself 
time.  Oh,  it's  a  great  struggle,  this  human  problem. 
All  these  black  ones  of  ours.  But  you  are  pursuing  the 
right  course,  and  some  day  they  will  see  it.  Then  will 
come  your  success.  It's  going  to  come.  It  will  come. 
It  must  come.  These  people  can't  keep  on  going  along 
as  they  are;  this  crime — murder.  It's  terrible.  Some 
one  will  help  to  stem  the  tide  of  it,  someone  will  lead 
them.  They  need  leaders.  They  are  not  bad  people, 
with  all  we  see  and  now  know  of  them.  They  simply 
need  some  one  to  lead  them  into  the  light.  I  feel  you 
will  be  that  person.  Yes.  I  am  sure  you  are  the  person." 
She  paused  a  moment,  and  it  was  only  then,  she 
became  aware  that  her  hand  still  rested  upon  his  head. 
She  removed  it  now,  and  silently  left  the  room. 

"I  love  her!  I  love  her!"  cried  Wilson  Jacobs.  "Oh, 
God  lead  me,  for  I  know  not  whither  I  go!" 

It  was  the  first  time  in  his  thirty-one  years  that  Wilson 
Jacobs  had  felt  so.  But  he  was  a  man.  And  the  fact 
made  him  respect  Mildred  Latham  the  more.  Not  for 


"I'M  WORRIED  ABOUT  MILDRED"       235 

anything  would  he  have  her  know  his  secret  after  this.  She 
had  thought  of  him  in  no  other  way  but  to  help  him. 
That  was  all.  He  would  have  to  go  forth  now  with  a 
secret  from  Constance  even. 

He  studied  his  text  for  the  coming  Sunday,  and  pre 
pared  himself  to  preach  as  he  had  never  preached  before. 

"Here  is  an  example  of  how  much  our  people  down 
here  desire  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  Miss  Latham/'  said  Reverend 
Jacobs  later.  "You  may  recall  that,  last  spring  the 
colored  people  of  Grantville  (which  had  a  population,  in 
the  last  census,  of  one  hundred  ten  thousand  people, 
almost  forty  thousand  being  colored),  made  a  great  cam 
paign  to  secure  a  Y.  M.  C.  A."  He  laid  before  her  a 
Negro  journal,  published  weekly  at  Grantville.  She 
picked  it  up  and  read  the  whole  article. 

It  went  into  detail  concerning  the  campaign  that  was 
made  to  secure  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  for  the  colored  youth  of 
Grantville.  She  had  been  interested  in  the  campaign 
and  knew  that  in  a  few  days,  thirty-three  thousand 
dollars  and  more  had  been  subscribed.  The  publishing 
house  that  printed  this  paper,  had  issued  a  daily  of 
sixteen  pages  during  the  campaign,  and  had  heralded  the 
spirit  of  the  colored  people  in  their  liberality.  They  had 
been  liberal  indeed,  but  it  was  only  in  subscribing.  The 
paying  was  different,  quite  different. 

After  six  months,  only  something  over  four  thousand 
dollars  of  that  amount  had  been  paid  in.  The  building, 
equipped,  would  cost  one  hundred  thousand  dollars.  A 
millionaire  Jew,  the  head  of  one  of  the  greatest  mail 
order  houses  in  the  country,  would  give  twenty-five 
thousand  dollars.  The  white  Y.  M.  C.  A.  gave  an  equal 
amount.  From  other  sources,  seventeen  thousand  dollars 
were  forthcoming.  The  colored  people  were  expected  to 
raise  the  remainder.  It  had  been  oversubscribed,  but 
only  four  thousand  had  been  paid  in.  Six  months  had 
passed,  and  she  knew  (although  the  paper  was  optimistic 
and  had  no  other  thought,  apparently,  than  that  the 
colored  people  would  raise  the  amount)  subscriptions 
would  be  paid  slower  now  than  before.  She  did  not 
know  what  to  say  when  she  had  read  the  article. 


236  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"Do  you  realize  what  they  are  up  against?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  resignedly. 

"And  they  do  not  seem  to  know  it." 

"No." 

"It's  discouraging." 

She  nodded. 

"It  would  be  no  trick  at  all  for  any  of  a  dozen  churchs 
in  the  town  to  raise  four  thousand  dollars  in  sixty  days  in  a 
rally."  She  remained  silent  but  listened,  and  knew  that 
he  spoke  the  truth. 

"They  have  hundreds  of  churches  all  over  the  south, 
that  have  cost,  in  actual  money,  one  hundred  thousand 
dollars,  and  they  have  paid  the  amount  without  assist 
ance  from  other  sources;  whereas,  the  white  people  are 
offering  sixty  thousand  dollars  of  this  amount." 

"And,  I  gather,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  that  was  listless, 
"that  Grantville,  with  its  many  schools  and  much  more 
intelligent  colored  people,  is  far  more  likely  to  succeed 
in  such  an  effort  than  this  town." 

He  nodded. 

"But  this  place  needs  it,  it  needs  it  badly.  It  needs 
a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  worse  than  any  town  in  the  south— 

"In  the  world,"  he  insisted. 

"And  you  do  not  think  it  would  be  worth  while  to 
inaugurate  a  campaign  for  that  purpose  here,  before 
long?" 

He  sighed  sadly,  and  then  grew  thoughtful. 

"Last  week,  the  number  of  murders  exceeded  any 
previous  week  for  two  years.  .  .  ." 

"And  over  one  hundred  Negro  churches  have  preaching 
in  them  every  Sunday." 

"And  from  what  I  can  learn,  these  murders  are  rarely 
mentioned,  in  any." 

"I  have  been  thinking  for  a  long  time-^before  you 
came — of  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  for  our  people  in  this  town,  but 
I  have  never  spoken  of  it.  But  since  I  have  known  and 
talked  with  you,  Miss  Latham,  and  have  seen  the  way 
our  people  are  conducting  themselves,  I  have  been  con 
strained  to  take  up  the  effort  of  securing  one."  He  said 
this  very  calmly,  with  no  undue  excitement. 


"I'M  WORRIED  ABOUT  MILDRED"       237 

"Have  you,  Mr.  Jacobs?"  She  made  no  attempt  to 
use  the  clerical  term.  Her  tone  was  eager,  anxious. 

"Yes,"  he  repeated.  "I  have  decided  to  begin  at  once, 
regardless  of  the  discouraging  spectacle  of  Grantville." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad,"  she  sighed,  relieved. 

He  looked  at  her,  but  said  nothing.  He  knew  that  she 
would  be  glad  to  hear  it.  He  was  glad,  though,  that 
she  had  spoken. 

"Yes,"  he  resumed.  "I  have  discussed  the  matter 
with  the  heads  of  three  of  the  big  trunk  lines  operating 
in  and  out  of  this  town,  and  all  of  whom  have  shops 
here  that  hire  black  men,  and,  as  you  might,  of  course, 
expect,  they  are  all  in  favor  of  it.  They  have,  more 
over,  advised  me  that  they  will  bring  such  a  movement 
to  the  attention  of  the  board  of  directors.  They  have 
further  advised  me,  however,  that  I  must  not  expect  to 
exceed  five  thousand  dollars  from  either,  and  not  to  be 
disappointed  if  the  board  failed  to  give  anything  at  all. 
That,  they  explained,  and  I  understood  without  ex 
planation,  was  due  to  the  financial  conditions  of  the 
railroads.  I  have  met  the  same  response  from  other 
local  interests.  But  by  them  all,  I  have  been  encouraged. 
Of  course,  the  white  Y.  M.  C.  A.  are  agreeable  to  giving 
assistance  as  in  other  towns,  and  have  given  me  to  under 
stand  that  they  will  put  in  twenty-five  thousand  dollars. 
And  then  the  Chicago  philanthropist,  of  course,  has  a 
like  amount  awaiting.  But  the  time  limit  expires  in  six 
months." 

"From  these,  I  have  gone  to  our  people." 

"You  went?"    She  held  her  breath  now. 

"To  those  others,  the  preachers." 

"And  they  were " 

"Against  it,  almost  to  a  man." 

"God  be  merciful!" 

"Of  course,  all  of  them  did  not  say  so  in  so  many 
words — in  fact,  as  you  might  expect,  'Yes,  brother,  this 
town  sure  needs  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.'  But  when  cooperation 
was  suggested  to  that  end,  quibbling  began.  Most  of 
them,  not  a  bit  original,  put  forward  the  same  excuse, 
too  busy.  All  were  preachers,  yet  too  busy  to  save  souls. 


238  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

Then,  of  course,  the  next  excuse  was  their  church  was 
loaded  up  with  debt;  they  were  now  preparing  a  rally 
to  raise  such  and  such  an  amount.  And  still  others  had 
just  closed  a  rally,  which  meant  their  flock  was  strapped 
and  would  be  until  another  rally.  And  there  are  three 
churches  in  this  very  town  that  cost  equally  as  much  as 
this  thing,  all  told. 

"Next,  I  tried  the  teachers.  The  professors,  of  course, 
were  full  of  the  idea.  I  found  only  two,  however,  who 
had  paid  enough  attention  to  the  effort  in  Grantville, 
to  know  that  the  people  were  likely  not  to  succeed. 
These,  I  was  glad  to  hear,  spoke  of  this  fact,  and  we 
then  discussed  the  matter  from  a  serious  point  of  view." 

"Have  you  not  found  ignorance  a  great  stumbling 
block?"  she  inquired. 

"The  greatest,  in  a  measure,  I  think.  To  be  ignorant 
means,  that  they  will  be  easily  discouraged,  when  they 
discover  the  obstacles." 

"When  do  you  intend  beginning  the  campaign?" 

"Sunday.  I  have  prepared  a  speech  to  that  end  for 
that  day,  but,  of  course,  I  would  have  to  concentrate  a 
greater  effort  before  it  can  be  started  with  any  effect. 
I  have,  however,  prepared  an  article,  rather,  several 
articles,  and  which  the  newspapers,  the  white  dailies, 
have  agreed  to  publish  conspicuously.  But  before  we 
can  expect  much  from  the  white  people,  we  will  ourselves 
have  to  show  greater  activity.  That  is  where  the  hard 
part  comes.  It  is  hard  to  arouse  the  local  leaders  to  any 
appreciation  of  such  a  thing.  There  is  so  much  surface 
interest,  and  so  little  heart  enthusiasm.  So  many  will 
say  a  lot  of  sweet  things  that  mean  nothing,  not  even  an 
effort  to  be  serious.  But  I  shall  open  the  campaign 
Sunday,  and  I  was  thinking  of  asking  your  assistance  in 
singing  and  playing." 

"Oh,  I'd  be  only  too  glad  to  help  in  any  way  I  know 
how,  but  that  is  so  little,"  she  said  bashfully. 

"We  will  start  only  in  a  small  way.  I  have  thought 
it  best  to  begin  with  my  congregation.  I  have  been  to 
them  all,  and  have  already  secured  liberal  subscriptions, 
all  of  whom  paid  a  part  of  it  in  cash.  This  I  will  employ 


'TM  WORRIED  ABOUT  MILDRED"       239 

as  a  means  of  stimulating  others.  So  Sunday,  at  three 
P.  M.,  I  will  lecture  on  it  and  ask  subscriptions,  detailing 
first  those  who  have  already  subscribed." 

"What  is  my  balance,  please,"  inquired  Mildred  the 
next  afternoon,  at  the  window  of  the  paying  teller. 

"One  hundred  fifty,"  said  the  cashier,  who  looked  sur 
prised. 

"I  wish  to  withdraw  it.  And  you  may  make  it  into  a 
draft,  payable  to  the  colored  Y.  M.  C.  A." 

His  mouth  opened  slightly.  He  regarded  her  with  a 
different  look,  and  then  did  as  she  instructed. 

A  fairly  good  crowd  greeted  Wilson  Jacobs,  when  he 
got  up  to  speak  on  the  proposed  campaign  for  a  colored 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  To  cheer  the  listeners,  he  asked  Miss 
Latham  to  play  and  sing  the  song  she  had  practiced,  and 
which  was  new  to  the  congregation.  She  did  so,  with  all 
the  art  of  which  she  was  capable,  and  was  pleased,  when 
she  turned  to  face  the  audience,  that  she  had  given  both 
pleasure  and  satisfaction.  Her  eyes  wandered  over  them 
for  a  moment,  and  then  rested  upon  someone  she  had 
seen  before. 

"Where  was  it,"  she  mused,  in  a  half  whisper.  Wilson 
Jacobs  was  speaking.  For  two  hours  he  spoke  in  behalf 
of  the  Christian  forward  movement.  He  made  plain  in 
so  many  ways,  the  urgent  need  of  such,  and  did  this 
eloquently.  He  arraigned  the  high  murder  record,  which 
made  all  of  those  before  him  feel  alarmed.  The  time  for 
some  united  effort  was  necessary.  Eventually  something 
had  to  be  done.  Plenty  of  churches,  it  was  true,  were 
open;  but  churches  were  arranged  for  worship,  and  not 
for  clean  sport,  pool,  billiard,  gymnasiums  and  other 
amusements  in  which  young  men  might  indulge,  would 
indulge,  and  did  indulge;  but  in  so  many  ways  and 
places,  that  were  not  conducted  in  a  Christian  manner. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  at  the  close,  "we  have  decided 
to  start  this  movement  today  at  home.  We  will  be  pleased 
to  make  an  example  we  hope  the  other  churches  will 
follow."  With  that,  he  read  the  names  of  the  donners 


240  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

and  subscribers.  Among  them,  one  hundred  fifty  dollars 
by  Mildred  Latham,  the  organist,  led  in  cash.  They 
were  surprised.  Very  few  had  even  become  acquainted 
with  her.  Now  all  desired  to.  When  the  meeting  had 
closed,  many  gathered  about  her  and  were  introduced. 
Then,  as  she  was  turning  to  go,  the  person  she  had  ob 
served  when  she  finished  playing,  approached.  His  hand 
was  extended,  while  his  eyes  looked  into  hers  with  some 
thing  that  frightened  her  when  she  saw  him — and  recog 
nized  him  as  the  man  she  had  seen  back  in  Cincinnati, 
and  who  now  recognized  her. 

When  she  went  home  that  day,  she  had  reached  a 
decision. 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

And  Then  She  Began  to  Grow  Otherwise 

The  week  following  Miss  Palmer's  and  Sidney's  outing, 
was  a  week  of  connections  for  her.  She  was  torn  by 
them  considerably.  She  hardly  knew  how  to  feel; 
whether  to  be  happy  or  angry  with  herself  for  having  acted 
as  she  did.  He  was  kind  to  her,  he  was  considerate;  but 
that  was  all.  She  had  exercised  all  her  wits  to  make  him 
see  her  seriously,  but  beyond  that  incident,  he  had  given 
her  no  encouragement  whatever.  She  felt  guilty  at  her 
conduct.  She  accused  herself  of  having  acted  unbecom 
ing  in  her  attitude  toward  him.  Although  he  would  not 
admit  having  written  the  book,  which  had  aroused  her 
curiosity,  she,  of  course,  knew  that  he  had.  She  had 
finished  it  now,  and  knew  all  he  had  suffered.  And,  as 
she  thought  it  over,  time  and  again,  she  almost  con 
cluded  that  his  life,  as  he  had  suffered,  made  him  hard 
and  unsympathetic.  And  almost  in  the  same  thought, 
she  rebuked  herself  for  feeling  that  way;  because,  above 
all  else,  he  was  certainly  not  selfish. 

He  called  almost  every  evening  when  he  had  finished 
his  work,  and  they  sat  on  the  porch  in  the  swing  if  there 
was  no  one,  and  when  there  happened  to  be,  they  sat  in 
the  parlor  on  the  davenport.  And  when  they  did  so,  it 
so  happened  they  began  to  flirt.  And  this  continued  to 
develop  until  it  reached  a  point  she  declared  to  be  out 
rageous.  And  yet  it  persisted.  At  such  times,  more 
over,  she  became  bold.  There  came  a  time  when  she  was 
almost  disgusted  with  herself  for  being  so  weak. 

After  a  few  weeks  had  passed,  she  came  to  realize  that 
her  quest  was  in  vain.  Sidney  Wyeth  had  no  affection, 
beyond  flirting,  with  her.  And  then  she  began  to  grow 
otherwise.  He  observed  the  change,  and  was  sorry,  per 
haps.  Still,  Miss  Palmer  did  not  give  up  entirely.  She 

16  241 


242  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

was  not  that  kind  of  person.  After  all,  to  kiss  him  anfl 
to  be  kissed  in  return,  was  some  pastime.  It  was  better 
than  not  being  kissed  or  loved  at  all.  So  she  flirted. 

After  this  became  the  usual  thing  in  their  acquaintance, 
she  began  to  assert  other  dispositions  that  had  not  before 
been  evident.  She  inquired  boldly  where  he  went  when 
he  didn't  call  in  the  evening,  as  usual.  She  dictated 
where  he  should  go  as  well.  In  desperation  she  continued 
her  tactics — even  to  a  point  where  our  pen  is  constrained 
to  relate. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  she  one  evening,  when  they  had 
flirted  shamefully.  "I'm  beginning  to  care  for  you." 
She  said  this  from  his  knee. 

"I  did  not,"  he  sighed.  He  was  not  the  least  excited 
by  her  acknowledgement. 

"I  am,"  she  affirmed.  "More  and  more  as  the  days 
go  by."  She  smiled  into  his  face,  while  he  looked  tired. 
"Have  you  anyone  back  where  you  came  from,  who 
loves  you  and  calls  you  her  all?"  she  asked  now,  as 
though  she  could  think  of  nothing  else  to  say. 

"No,  no,  no!"  He  looked  distressed.  "I  wish  I  had," 
he  added. 

"I  know  you  tell  what  is  not  true — feel  you  do,"  she 
corrected.  After  a  pause  she  said:  "Do  you  happen  to 
have  just  a  little,  only  a  little  regard  for  me?  "  He  made 
light  of  it  by  blowing  her  a  kiss,  and  tried  to  change  the 
conversation,  but  she  had  more  to  say. 

"Of  course  you  wouldn't  love  an  old  grass- widow  like 
me  anyhow,"  she  pouted.  He  was  at  a  loss  what  to  say, 
so  said  nothing. 

"Why  don't  you  say  something?"   she  said,  put  out. 

"You  should  not  make  such  remarks,"  he  said,  with 
a  frown. 

"But  it's  true,  it's  true,  and  you  can't  deny  it."  She 
seemed  angry  now,  and  didn't  appear  to  care  what  she 
said.  She  left  his  knee  with  a  last  retort.  "And  you 
men  are  the  cause  of  it  all." 

He  leaned  his  head  against  the  back  of  the  davenport 
and  closed  his  eyes,  which  angered  her,  and  she  cried: 

"Go  to  sleep,  go  to  sleep.  You  are  the  worst  person 
I  ever  knew,"  and  forthwith  she  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

Enter— Mr.  Tom  Toddy! 

When  Legs  had  pawned  and  lost  about  all  he  possessed, 
he  happened  upon  a  job  at  one  of  the  hotels,  and  went 
to  work.  To  do  so,  however,  he  had  to  secure  a  white 
jacket,  and  a  pair  of  black  trousers.  This  was  somewhat 
difficult  on  account  of  his  long  legs,  but  he  managed  to 
secure  an  old  pair,  and,  too  glad  of  the  chance  to  work 
where  he  could  fill  his  stomach  regularly,  he  gave  good 
service,  and  was  soon  on  the  good  side  of  the  head 
waiter. 

"Say,  Books,"  he  cried  one  day,  soon  after  he  had 
commenced  work.  "You  should  have  seen  me  eat  today. 
Nice  hot  bisquits  with  butter,  and  dripping  out  around 
the  edges,  um-um.  Man,  the  way  I  did  eat!  I  got  all 
them  nigga's  t'  laffin'  over  somethin'  funny  I  said,  and 
then  I'd  slip  back  into  the  kitchen,  open  the  oven  and 
get  me  a  half  dozen  hot  rolls  and  butter'm  good,  and  eat, 
and  eat,  and  eat! 

"There  is  but  one  thing  I  can't  seem  to  get  over,  and 
that  is  that  dollar  this  nigga  Moore  got  me  out  of  bed 
to  lose.  Say,  that  hurt  me  worse  than  anything  in  this 
world.  I've  drawn  the  line  on  him  now  though.  He 
ain't  nothing  but  an  old  always  broke  coon,  a-moochin' 
around  for  somebody  to  stake  him  in  a  game.  I  could 
have  made  it  all  right  when  I  came  over  here,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  him.  And  he  never  won  anything,  and  kept  me 
broke  as  long  as  I  would  speak  to  him." 

In  a  very  short  time  Legs  was  "on  his  feet,"  as,  the 
saying  goes.  He  was  making  some  money  and  spending 
it  all.  His  good  resolution  with  regard  to  gambling  had 
been  laid  on  the  shelf  until  further  declarations,  and  he 
shot  craps  whenever  off  duty,  and  when  he  could  find  a 
game.  Moore  he  ignored;  but  that  worthy  was  as  fond 

243 


244  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

of  the  game  as  a  pig  was  of  corn,  so  they  occasionally 
ran  into  each  other,  nevertheless.  In  fact,  as  Sidney 
observed  them,  almost  every  Negro  shot  craps,  with  few 
exceptions.  Whiskey  and  craps  were  so  much  in  evidence 
everywhere  he  looked,  that  he  drew  this  conclusion  soon. 

Now  a  man  lived  overhead,  and  rented  from  the  land 
lady,  whose  name  was  Murphy.  Wyeth  called  him 
"Smoked  Irish."  He  was  a  creature  with  a  dark  record, 
so  Wyeth  was  told,  and  he  hailed  from  a  little  town  in 
the  state  adjoining.  Some  years  before,  he  had  been  a 
man  of  considerable  importance,  but  with  women  and 
other  pastimes,  he  had  fallen  into  bad  ways,  was  sent  to 
the  penitentiary  for  fraud,  and  had  sought  other  parts 
after  the  expiration  of  his  term. 

As  Wyeth  knew  him,  he  was  a  "bahba,"  and  shaved 
chins  and  sheared  wool  in  one  of  Effingham's  fancy 
Negro  shops. 

Murphy  had  seen  almost  fifty  summers,  was  about 
five  feet  eleven,  and  a  mulatto  with  coarse,  stiff,  black 
hair,  tinged  with  gray.  His  features  were  set,  like  a  man 
with  experience,  and  he  could  tell  some  wonderful  stories. 
The  Mis'  called  them  lies.  They  might  have  been,  but 
it  is  to  Murphy's  credit  that  they  were  good  ones,  and 
interesting  to  listen  to. 

On  Sunday,  and  week  days  also,  when  he  was  home 
from  the  shop,  and  in  his  loft,  Murphy  sold  whiskey  on 
the  side — or  as  a  side  line,  and  operated  a  crap  game  in 
addition.  The  law,  of  course,  did  not  permit  of  this,  as 
we  shall  see  presently;  but — well,  it  didn't  matter — as 
long  as  the  law  didn't  know  it.  And  Murphy  made 
money,  Wyeth  was  told.  It  was  up  there  Legs  invested 
most  of  his  earnings,  winning  once  in  a  while,  but  losing 
more  frequently.  The  fact  that  Murphy  was  so  con 
venient  with  his  diversion,  was,  in  a  sense,  helpful  to 
Legs,  because  he  didn't  have  to  journey  far  to  his  bed. 
And  always  as  soon  as  he  was  "cleaned,"  he  would  retire 
and  sleep  as  peacefully  as  a  babe,  until  his  work  called 
him  the  following  morning. 

John  Moore  was  a  frequent  visitor  also.  Legs  put 
Wyeth  wise,  when  he  inquired  why  Moore  was  up  there 


ENTER— MR.  TOM  TODDY!  245 

so  often,  since  he  appeared  to  have  no  money.  "He's  a 
piker,  a  cheap  piker  that  touts  for  Murphy,  for  the 
privilege  of  gambling  and  gettin'  a  drink  a  liquah,  that 
he  loves  so  well." 

Much  to  the  surprise  of  them  all,  one  Saturday  night 
about  this  time,  Moore  did  make  a  winning.  Legs  in 
formed  Wyeth  to  this  effect,  when  he  retired  from  the 
battle  "clean." 

"Seven  dollars  and  a  half,  the  dirty  devil.  And  he'll 
be  as  scarce  as  hen's  teeth  as  long  as  he  has  a  dime  of  it 
too."  He  was  mistaken.  That  was  on  Saturday  night. 
Sunday  morning  after  he  had  risen  and  had  some  good 
whiskey,  Moore  dressed  himself  like  a  gentleman,  and 
made  some  of  the  losers  envy  him  for  a  few  hours.  Then 
he  went  back  upstairs  to  Murphy's.  When  Wyeth  saw 
him  again,  he  was  sitting  under  a  shade  tree,  reading  the 
Bible.  This  was  a  self-evident  fact  that  he  had  made  an 
investment.  As  further  evidence  of  the  fact,  that  night 
at  supper  he  offered  a  beautiful  prayer.  He  had  failed 
to  do  so  that  morning,  which  was  further  proof  of  Legs' 
contention. 

Legs  came  up  while  Moore  was  reposing  sanctimoni 
ously,  and  said:  "M-m!  Cleaned,  eh!  Glad  of  it,  the 
cheap  sucker.  He's  dead  broke,  too.  Because  if  he  had 
even  a  nickel,  he'd  be  upstairs.  You  can  bet  a  nickel  up 
there.  The  only  thing  against  it  is  Murphy's  cut.  He 
cuts  a  nickel  a  pass.  And  sometimes  he  cuts  both  ways, 
going  and  coming.  So,  with  men  betting  a  nickel  against 
a  nickel,  Murphy  is  liable  to  take  it  all." 

Moore  retired  early  that  evening,  and  slept  peacefully. 
He  had  worked  hard  the  night  before,  and  that  morning. 

The  following  Saturday  night,  Legs  came  to  the  room, 
caught  Wyeth  half  asleep,  and  borrowed  a  dollar.  With 
this,  he  went  for  a  joy  ride,  and  got  drunk  into  the 
bargain.  Wyeth  didn't  realize  that  he  had  loaned  him 
a  dollar,  until  the  other  was  whizzing  down  the  street  hi 
the  car.  And  then  he  was  angry  with  himself.  This 
disturbed  him  until  sleep  was  impossible,  so,  rising,  he 
betook  himself  to  the  porch.  As  he  thought  it  over,  he 
became  more  angry  with  himself  than  ever,  because  he 


246  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

knew  Legs  had  borrowed  it  for  the  sole  purpose  of  getting 
drunk  and  joy  riding.  While  he  was  getting  over  it  in 
the  soft  night  air,  the  Mis'  told  him  Legs  had  got  paid 
that  day,  and,  with  the  exception  of  what  he  paid  her, 
he  had  lost  the  remainder  of  his  two  weeks'  wage  in  a 
game.  That  made  him  more  angry,  and,  in  seeking  a 
diversion,  he  rose,  and  out  of  curiosity,  he  decided  to 
pay  Murphy's  den  a  visit. 

Murphy  had  a  good  crowd  that  night — he  usually  did 
on  Saturday.  In  a  room  that  was  near  the  middle  of  the 
apartment,  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  Negroes,  stood  a 
table  over  which  was  spread  a  green  cloth.  At  one  side 
of  the  table  sat  Moore,  and  he  called  the  points  and 
fished  the  cuts;  while  in  another  room  to  the  rear  of 
this,  with  doors  open,  stood  a  large  refrigerator.  This, 
Wyeth  surmised,  was  where  the  liquor  was  kept.  It  was, 
for,  as  he  was  looking,  Murphy  approached  it,  opened  it, 
took  therefrom  several  bottles  of  beer,  and  served  it  to 
the  many  gamesters  who  were  working  hard,  and  per 
spiring  freely. 

The  green  cloth,  which  at  one  time  had  decorated  a 
pool  table,  was,  as  he  now  observed,  employed  to  deaden 
the  sound  of  the  rolling  dice,  that  slid  over  it  from  some 
perspiring  palm.  Not  any  large  amount  was  upon  the 
table;  but  many  one  dollar  bills  could  be  seen  in  the 
palms  of  the  gamesters.  Another  roomer  downstairs, 
and  who  read  a  great  deal,  was  on  hand  and  shot  craps 
too.  This  was  something  of  a  surprise,  since  he  was 
apparently  very  intelligent;  but,  as  Wyeth  learned  later, 
literary  training  did  not  make  them  ignore  the  game  by 
any  means.  As  he  stood  watching,  the  dice  passed  to 
Glenview,  the  intelligent  roomer.  He  made  a  point,  and 
then  threw  seven  before  he  came  back  to  it.  The  winners 
picked  up  the  money.  Wyeth  was  relieved  to  see  the 
dice  pass  to  another  Negro,  who  had  been  fidgeting  about 
impatiently.  He  caught  them  up,  and  blew  his  breath 
on  them,  as  they  were  held  in  his  palm,  before  throwing 
them  before  him  across  the  table.  Wyeth  advanced 
closer  as  the  game  became  more  excited.  Glenview  had 
thrown  the  dice,  much  as  Wyeth  had  observed  the  white 


ENTER— MR.  TOM  TODDY!  247 

people  did  back  in  the  Rosebud  Country — for  they  shot 
craps  there  as  well.  But  now,  with  a  "clea'  dy  way, 
I'm  a  comin',"  he  let  them  roll. 

"Throwed  eight!"  cried  Moore. 

"Eight  I  throwed!    Now  dice,  do  it  again!" 

'T'  click-i-lick-lick-lick,  'ah  eight!" 

'Throw-e-d  ten!" 

'Haf 'ecain'hit!" 

'Ah  got  yu!" 

'Qua'ta'  mo'  I'n  make  it!"  exclaimed  the  shooter, 
hesitating  with  upraised  hand,  but  shaking  the  dice  in 
them  the  while,  and  throwing  a  quarter  across  the  table. 

"Ah'll  take  yu'!"   cried  a  burley  on  the  other  side. 

"Shoot  the  dice,  nigga,  shoot  the  dice,"  commanded 
Moore. 

"T-click-i-lick-i-lick  'ah-ha-eight!" 

"Throwed  five!" 

"AhV  no  eight  on  'nem  dice!" 

" T-click-i-click-i-click  'ah,  eaighter  from  Decatur!'  ' 

"Throwed  seben!" 

"Ke-hu!" 

"Tole  yu  he  coul'n't  make  it!"  cried  a  big  dinge. 
"Now  gimme  dem  dice!" 

"Bet  a  quata!" 

"Make  it  a  haf!" 

"Ah  take  yu!" 

"Shoot  the  dice,  nigga,  shoot  the  dice!" 

"Yeh.    Cut  out  d'  awgument  V  let'm  roll,  let'm  roll!" 

"Gimme  room  heah  'cause  ah  kicks!"  He  did  too. 
Raising  his  left  foot  he  stamped  the  floor  with  it,  kicking 
backward  viciously  at  the  same  time  with  the  other. 
He  caught  a  Negro  on  the  shins,  which  made  that  worthy 
angry  with  pain,  whereupon  he  turned,  and  let  the  other 
have  a  good  one  in  the  usual  place.  For  a  time  the 
game  was  threatened  with  a  fight;  but  Murphy,  who 
appeared  to  understand  them  quite  well,  interfered  with 
success. 

"T-click-i-lick-i-lick,  'ah,  seben  ah  'leben!' ' 

"Throwed  craps!" 

"Ya-ha!    Makin'  all  da  fuss  'n'  lose  d'  fus'  shot!" 


248  THE  FORGEDiNOTE 

"Dem  dice  's  crocket/'  he  muttered. 

"Yuz  a  liah,"  cried  one  of  the  winners,  as  if  afraid 
they  were,  and  he  would  not  get  his  bet. 

"Yuse  a  cheap  nigga,"  said  Moore.    "Stand  aside." 

Next  came  a  little  Negro,  with  a  nose  that  began  at 
the  ears,  and  peepy  eyes  which  observed  the  dice  suspici 
ously.  He  was  displeased  with  the  looks  of  them,  evi 
dently.  They  were  a  large  white  pair,  and  which,  so  'tis 
said,  can  be  loaded.  He  threw  them  across  the  table 
without  making  his  bet,  saying:  "Ah  gotta  paih  mah 
own/'  and  produced  from  his  pocket,  a  pair  of  huge 
celluloid  ones,  that  were  beautiful  in  the  electric  light. 

"Haf  t'  use  the  house's  dice,  cain't  substitute,"  ad 
vised  Moore,  judiciously. 

"Why  caint  ah,  I'd  lak  t'  know.  Why  caint  ah!" 
he  exclaimed,  beginning  to  perspire. 

Moore  started  to  say  more,  but  Murphy  came  for 
ward  now,  with  "Let  me  see  them."  He  took  them 
carefully  in  his  hand,  held  them  between  his  eyes  and  the 
light,  tossed  them  about,  and  then  threw  them  on  the 
table.  "They're  all  right,"  and  walked  away.  The 
little  dinge  grabbed  them  eagerly,  rubbed  them  together 
fondly,  blew  his  breath  on  them,  and  then,  raising  his 
hand  above  his  head,  he  made  a  peculiar  rattle  and 
threw  them  bouncing  and  jumping  across  the  table. 
The  Negroes  about  had  been  observing  him  with  ill 
omen,  and  now,  as  the  dice  jumped  before  them  like 
little  red  devils,  they  sparkled  in  the  light,  and  made  their 
eyes  blink. 

"Thro wed  seven!"  cried  Moore. 

"Dogone  nigga's  's  lucky  's  'e  's  ugly,"  grumbled  a 
loser. 

"Shoot  it  all!"  he  cried,  hesitating  with  the  dice  in 
his  hand. 

'Ah'll  take  it!" 

'Haf  'e  cain'  hit!" 

'Ah  fate  yu!" 

'Let'm  roll,  let'm  roll!" 

'T-click-i-lick-i-lick,  ah  baby  dolls!" 

'Throwed  five!" 


ENTER— MR.  TOM  TODDY!  249 

"  Raise  ut  t'  a  dollah!" 

"Make  ut  sebenty-five!" 

"Let'm  roll!" 

"T-click-i-lick-i-lick,  ah,  phoebe!" 

"Throwed  five!" 

"  Um-m-m-m-m ! " 

"T-click-i-lick-lick!  a-ha  dice!" 

"Throwed  seben!" 

"Jes'  look  ut  dat  fool  nigga,  good  Gawd!" 

"Sech  luck,  sech  luck,  sech  luck!" 

"Shoot  it  all!" 

"Fate  dis  nickel,"  begged  a  loser,  with  a  whimper. 

"Trow  it  out  d'  windu'  shine!" 

"Now  watch  dis  'leben!"  cried  the  guy  with  the  luck. 

"Aw,  Lawdy,  Lawdy,  Lawdy,  jes'  look  ut  dat  nigga 
agin!" 

"Nigga,  dem  dice  yu'  shootin'  uz  sho  God  crooket!" 

"Shoot  it  all!"  Five  dollars  was  the  size  of  the  pot 
now.  It  was  like  five  hundred  to  the  eyes  that  now  saw  it. 

"Whu,  whu,  whu!"  He  blew  on  them;  while  with 
murder  in  their  eyes,  the  losers  watched. 

"I'll  take  it,"  said  Glenview  calmly.  He  placed  a 
five  dollar  bill  over  the  amount  that  lay  upon  the  table. 
Several  had  now  gone  broke,  while  others  declared 
silently,  that  he  was  a  hoo-doo,  and  feared  to  risk  him. 
Several  little  bets  were  made  on  the  side,  but  no  one  was 
willing  to  risk  much  against  such  luck  as  he  had  dis 
played. 

"Now,  Anne  Jane,  bring  home  du'  bacin!"  he  cried, 
as  he  let  them  bounce  on  the  table.  It  seemed  an  age  to 
the  lookers  before  they  stopped  somewhat  to  the  far  side. 
A  six  and  a  five.  Eleven.  He  had  won  again.  There 
was  no  comment  now.  Every  one  was  silent,  and  sur 
veyed  him,  as  if  he  were  the  clouds. 

"Shoot  it  all,"  he  cried  again.  A  bit  of  muttering  went 
the  rounds  before  any  one  ventured  to  cover  it. 

'  'E  cain'  keep  ut  up,  'e  cain'  keep  ut  up,"  declared  one 
who  held  only  three  dollars  out  of  a  ten  dollar  bill  a  few  min 
utes  before.  He  threw  a  dollar  viciously  toward  him.  After 
much  parley,  others  joined;  John  Moore  saw  Murphy's 


250  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

back,  eased  a  dollar  from  the  cuts,  and  added  it  to  the 
pool.  Twenty  dollars  was  now  the  stake,  and  it  was 
like  a  million  to  those  that  saw  it. 

The  winner  now  uncoated  himself.  He  had  on  noth 
ing  beneath  the  coat  but  an  undershirt.  He  flung  his 
hat  in  the  corner,  revealing  a  little  sharp  head,  shaven 
clean  and  upon  which  the  light  dazzled  like  a  smoked 
opal.  As  Wyeth  observed  him,  he  was  reminded  of  an 
ape,  if  he  had  ever  seen  one.  He  took  plenty  of  time,  as 
though  anticipating  something.  Rolling  up  his  sleeve, 
he  exposed  a  pair  of  sinewy  arms  that  made  the  crowd 
exchange  glances.  Sidney  was  standing  near  the  window. 
At  this  moment  he  happened  to  look  out.  From  up  the 
street  came  a  sound  of  merry  rollicking.  No  other 
appeared  to  hear. 

The  dice  were  now  tumbling  over  the  table  in  their 
fateful  quest.  More  than  a  dozen  pairs  of  brown  eyes 
blinked  dryly  at  them,  as  the  red  material  flickered 
beautifully.  Wyeth  now  looked  carefully  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  sound,  and  finally  caught  the  outline  of  Legs. 
From  the  distance,  he  saw  that  he  was  loaded.  He  was 
covering  considerable  space — so  much  so  that  it  would 
have  been  extremely  difficult  to  have  passed  him  on  the 
walk,  which  was  narrow.  And  behind  him  came  another. 
He  was  about  half  the  height  of  Legs,  as  they  now  ap 
peared.  Wyeth  recognized  him  as  the  runt,  and  his 
name  was  Tom  Toddy,  at  least,  that  is  what  they  called 
him  about  a  hotel  that  was  patronized  by  Negroes,  and 
where  he  acted  as  a  sort  of  goat  and  flunky.  Wyeth  had 
had  his  life  threatened  on  one  occasion  by  him.  It  was 
because  he  had  called  him  "  Graveyard/'  He  was  old, 
bald-headed  and  measly.  So  this  epithet  seemed  quite 
appropriate.  And,  thereupon,  Toddy  had  threatened  to 
send  him  into  eternity,  if  he  addressed  him  again  in  such 
terms.  He  had  a  load  also. 

On  they  came,  and  for  the  time  Wyeth  forgot  the 
game.  Toddy  was  now  beside  Legs,  and  they  embraced 
like  man  and  wife.  As  Wyeth  smiled  at  the  spectacle, 
they  began  to  sing. 

"It's  a  long,  long  way  to  Temporary," 


ENTER— MR.  TOM  TODDY!  251 

and  as  they  came  on,  they  changed  it  to: 
"We're  a  long,  long  way  from  home." 

Wyeth  laughed  now  almost  outright;  but  those  behind 
him  never  heard.  They  heard  only,  and  saw  with  all 
eyes,  that  the  apish  creature  had  won  again,  and  had 
strapped  the  crowd  to  cover  the  next  bet  he  was  now 
shooting  for. 

Legs  and  Toddy  had  reached  the  curbing,  and,  not 
seeing  it,  they  tumbled  over  into  the  sand-covered  street. 
As  they  picked  themselves  up,  they  sang  lowly: 
"You  made  me  what  I  am  today, 
So  I  guess  you're  satisfied." 

On  toward  the  house  they  now  came,  singing  at  inter 
vals.  Presently  they  stepped  upon  the  porch,  and 
rattled  the  knob.  The  door  was  always  kept  locked 
during  such  proceedings.  From  the  lower  end  of  town, 
a  rooster  crowed  long  and  loud;  while,  at  the  same 
moment,  a  clock  from  some  remote  tower  struck  two. 
The  dice  tumbled  onward  to  their  fatal  end,  and  Legs 
kicked  the  door  a  bang. 

In  the  still  night,  it  sounded  like  the  discharge  of  a 
cannon. 

Then  here  came  a  lull.  All  became  so  quiet  that  the 
ticking  of  a  clock  upon  the  mantel  sounded  like  the 
pounding  of  a  hammer.  Faces  turned  about  and  eyes 
looked  into  each  other.  They  were  all  colors  and  a  sight 
to  see.  The  little  Negro,  coolest  all  the  while,  eased  the 
money  into  his  jeans,  as  the  others  cried  all  at  once: 

"The  bulls!" 

And  now  began  the  scramble,  and  it  was  a  mighty  one. 

Under  the  table  went  many,  whereupon  it  turned  over, 
and  revealed  them  all  wiggling  like  so  many  eels.  JTo 
the  room  containing  the  refrigerator,  went  a  half  dozen 
others  and  closed  the  door.  John  Moore  stood  in  the 
center  of  the  room  where  he  had  been  deserted  by  the 
others,  his  knees  hitting  together  with  a  sound  like 
rocks.  Cold  fear,  for  he  was  an  awful  coward,  held  him 
like  a  vise.  Into  the  closets;  into  Murphy's  bedroom 
went  some  more,  and  piled  in  a  hurry  into  the  bed, 
whereupon  it  gave  way  with  a  loud  crash,  mixing  many 


252  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

in  a  nasty,  smothered  mass,  where  they  tried  to  extricate 
themselves  with  much  difficulty. 

And,  in  the  meantime,  the  kicking  continued.  "Let 
me  in!  Let  me  in!  What  in  Hell!"  cried  Legs,  and  it 
was  punctuated  with  a  piping  from  Tom  Toddy. 

"Yes," — he  was  very  proper — "open  up!  Open  up! 
This  is  a  He-11  uv  a  way  to  treat  two  gentlemen!" 

John  Moore  was  still  doing  the  dazzle;  but,  now 
upon  hearing  the  voices,  he  gathered  enough  courage  to 
stand  erect,  and  then  he  turned  hurriedly  and  running 
to  a  rear  window,  put  his  feet  out,  jumped  out  full  upon 
the  soft  dirt  below,  and  landed  without  injury,  ap 
parently,  for,  a  moment  later,  Wyeth  heard  him  running 
around  the  house  in  the  direction  of  the  kicking.  He 
didn't  permit  the  miscreants  to  see  him,  until  he  had 
made  out  fully  that  they  were  not  officers.  When  he 
had  made  sure  they  were  not  blue-coats,  he  advanced 
on  them  from  the  rear,  and  took  them  by  surprise.  He 
appeared  unable  to  frame  words  of  denunciation  strong 
enough,  but  at  last  he  made  it.  His  voice  was  subdued 
when  he  did  speak,  he  was  so  angry. 

"Yeu!  Yeu!  Y-e-u  long-legged  nigga!  Yeu  liver 
eatin'  bunch  a-meat!  And  you!  You  littel  dried  shrimp! 
Git  ready  t'  die,  'cause  's  sho  's  I'm  a  nigga,  I'm  going 
t'  part  you  from  this  earth  t'night!" 

They  turned  now,  for  a  moment  sober,  and  looked  at 
him.  He  went  on  with  his  tirade. 

"  Makin'  all  this  noise  down  heh,  'n'  scarrin'  everybody 
t'  death,  'n'  a-breakin'  up  the  game!  This  is  wha'  you 
all  'n'  me  meets  our  Jehovah!" 

Legs  was  now  too  near  the  edge,  and,  suddenly  with  a 
catching  to  save  himself,  which  Moore  construed  as  an 
advance  upon  him,  he  went  overboard  with  a  mighty 
tumble. 

To  this  day,  however,  John  Moore  didn't  know  it  was 
an  accident.  He  didn't  wait  to  investigate.  A  long  pair 
of  legs,  with  a  long  body  on  top  of  them  was  all  he  cared 
to  see,  and  when  they  landed,  he  was  going  around  the 
corner  of  the  house  and  into  the  kitchen. 

His  hurry  up  ingress  awakened  the  Mis',  who  bolted 
out  of  bed,  and  demanded  to  know  what  was  up. 


ENTER— MR.  TOM  TODDY!  253 

"The  devil's  up — on  the  front  porch,  a-raisin'  cain." 

"What  are  you  talkin'  'bout!" 

"That  long-legged  nigga  from  Attalia  a-comin  in  heh 
a-kickin'  on  the  door,  and  a-scarrin  everybody  outta  the' 
senses!"  he  told  her,  much  excited,  and  with  his  back 
against  the  door,  not  failing  to  listen  in  the  meantime. 

Wyeth  descended  the  stair  now,  opened  the  street  door, 
admitting  Legs  and  Toddy.  Legs  entered  first,  while 
Toddy,  blinking  blindly,  followed  suit  with  a  grip  on  his 
coat  tail. 

"Where  is  he,"  cried  Legs.  "I  mean  John  Moore! 
I  want  to  kill  him!  Death  for  him  is  the  campaign  for 
tonight!  From  this  earth  he's  got  to  part!  Where  is  he! 
Show  him  to  me  now,  and  in  a  minute  I'll  show  you  his 
heart,  the  skunk." 

In  some  way,  Moore  did  not  hear  this;  but  stood  at 
the  rear  looking  for  Legs  from  that  direction;  and,  in 
the  meantime,  declaring  to  the  Mis'  what  he  was  going 
to  do. 

"I'm  go'n  throw  that  nigga  out  tonight!  To-night,  or 
I'll  die  tomorra,  so  help  me  Jaysus!" 

Legs,  who  had  entered  his  bedroom  which  opened  into 
the  kitchen,  overheard  this  last.  He  now  tore  off  his 
coat  and  hat,  which  Tom  Toddy  held,  and  forthwith 
sought  Moore  with  a  mighty  oath.  Glenview  put  in  his 
appearance  now  from  the  rear,  and  kept  Legs  out  of 
the  kitchen,  which  fact  sufficed  for  John  Moore  to  make 
words.  Our  pen  fails  to  describe  this  in  detail. 

"Git  yp  things  'n'  go!"  cried  Moore  near  the  door, 
and  positive  that  Glenview  was  between  them.  "Leave 
mah  house  at  once!" 

"Oh,  hush!    Hush!    Hush!"   interposed  the  Mis'. 

"Leave,  leave,  to-night!" 

"Just  let  me  get  to  him,  just  let  me  get  to  him!  I 
want  to  eat'm,"  begged  Legs. 

"Yeh;  let  us  have  him.  We're  going  t'  skin  him," 
squeaked  Tom  Toddy. 

'This  is  terrible,"  cried  the  Mis'. 

"Just  let  me  get  my  fingers  on  the  tramp,  and  it'll  be 
all  over  in  a  minute,"  Legs  begged. 


254  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"All  but  the  funeral,"  assisted  Toddy. 

"Orderin'  somebody  out  of  his  house.  You  ain' 
nothin'  but  the  flunky  anywhere.  If  I  was  in  charge 
here,  I'd  make  you  sleep  under  the  bed!" 

"I'd  make  him  sleep  under  the  house,  the  lousy  rat," 
cried  Toddy. 

"Ah  said  you  leave  this  house  now,"  cried  Moore. 
"These  ah  the  orders  from  me.  From  me-e!" 

"The  Mis'  ain'  said  nothin',"  Legs  cried  again. 

"Leave,  leave,  before  I  tear  yu'  t'  pieces,"  Moore 
raved,  stamping  his  foot. 

At  that  moment,  Legs  gave  Glenview  a  push  that 
sent  him  reeling,  and  with  a  lunge,  he  cornered  Moore. 
That  worthy  was  frightened  into  Hades.  He  was  speech 
less.  Legs  smiled  on  him  as  he  reached  out  and  got  him 
by  the  ears.  Grasping  them  tight,  he  essayed  a  bumping 
process  against  the  wall  with  his  head. 

"Have  you  got  him,  boy?"  inquired  Toddy,  making 
sure  before  he  ventured  forth  with  a  small  knife.  "What 
shall  I  do  to  the  sucker  now?  Just  tell  me,  and  I'll 
proceed  to  take  off  his  nose  or  his  lips;  either  one  of 
them  will  make  good  dog  meat." 

"You  shouldn't  have  come  home  disturbing  every 
body  like  this,"  said  the  Mis',  and  seemed  hurt.  This 
had  effect  on  Legs,  who  was  always  considerate  of  the 
ladies. 

"I'm  sorry  for  you,  Mis';  but  I've  had  it  in  for  this 
hunk  a  meat,  ever  since  he  got  me  out  of  bed  to  lose 
my  last  dollar."  He  emphasized  the  remark  by  another 
bumping. 

"I'm  a  poor  widow  woman  without  protection,  and 
you  are  ruining  the  only  way  I  have  of  making  a  living." 
That  was  enough.  He  forgot  John  Moore  for  a  second, 
and  the  next  moment  that  worthy  was  locked  in  an 
adjoining  room.  Here  he  went  into  a  tirade.  Legs  for 
got  the  Mis'  now  and  sought  him,  but  the  door  was 
locked  and  bolted. 

"Git  yo  things  'n'  go  nigga!"  he  cried  boldly  now, 
from  his  safe  retreat. 

"If  you  had  called,  or  knocked,  I  would  have  come 


ENTER— MR.  TOM  TODDY!  255 

and  opened  the  door,  as  I  always  do.  There  was  no  call 
for  all  this!"  remonstrated  the  Mis'." 

"Don't  lock  me  out,  don't  lock  me  out!"  Legs  raged. 

"Git  yo  things  and  go,  dy'e  here,"  from  the  retreat. 
Legs  now  became  angry  with  the  Mis'." 

"Gimme  a  dollar  Mis'  and  I'll  go.  If  that  thing  in 
the  other  woom  there  is  running  this  place,  I  don't  want 
to  stay." 

" Git  yo  things  'n'  go!" 

"Gimme  a  dollar!" 

"You  ought  to  have  known  better  than  to  create  such 
a  disturbance,"  the  Mis'  said. 

"Gimme  a  dollar!"  from  Legs  again. 

"Let's  get  another  drink!"  from  Toddy. 

"I've  always  treated  you  like  a  gentleman." 

"Gimme  a  dollar!"    "Gimme  a  dollar  'n'  a  haf!" 

"What  we  go'n  give  you  a  dollar  'n'  a  haf  fo'?" 

"I  paid  room  rent  in  advance  last  Wednesday." 

"Now!  Here!"  cried  the  Mis',  "all  of  you  go  to  bed 
and  forget  this  noise." 

"Ah'm  go'n  git  'n'  officer,  and  have  that  long-legged 
nigga  'rested!"  from  within. 

"Go  to  bed!"   from  the  Mis'. 

"Go'n  have  who  arrested?"  exclaimed  Legs,  mad  all 
over  again. 

'  T  you  do'n  git  out  at  once,  I'm  go'n  throw  you  out!" 

"If  I  ever  get  my  hands  on  you  again,  you  old  cheap 
nigga;  you  old  broken  nigga;  you  moochin'  piker;  you 
pot  a-neck-bone  stew!" 

"Say,"  cried  one  of  the  roomers,  just  then,  "a  pair 
of  bulls  are  coming  down  the  street!" 

That  was  the  end  of  it. 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

The  Disappearing  Chin 

Some  years  before,  back  in  the  west,  and  at  the  drug 
store  in  a  little  town  near  which  Wyeth  owned  land,  and 
where,  during  the  cold  wint'ry  days,  the  more  intelligent 
and  pretentious,  as  well  as  argumentative  were  wont  to 
collect  and  discuss  science,  politics  and  economics,  a  sub 
ject  came  up  one  day,  that  thereafter,  became  the  topic 
on  more  than  one  afternoon's  discussion. 

It  concerned  chins,  and  grew  out  of  the  presence  of  an 
insurance  writer,  who  was  booziogically  inclined.  And, 
being  so,  and  a  man  of  no  great  means,  if  any,  it  was  a 
puzzle  to  many  how  he  could  get  the  means  to  fill  up  on 
liquor  daily,  and  pay  for  it. 

The  occurrence  had  remained  in  Wyeth's  memory, 
and,  afterwards,  he  had  a  new  viewpoint  in  observing 
people. 

Fitzpatrick  was  his  name,  and  he  was,  of  course,  Irish. 
His  ability  to  get  the  wherewith  to  get  drunk  daily,  and 
have  money  for  other  purposes  as  well,  came  up  one  day 
for  discussion.  The  more  logical  and  nature  study 
debaters,  laid  it  to  the  fact  that  he  was  possessed  of  an 
indefatigable  will,  and  that,  in  addition,  was  conspicu 
ously  evident  in  his  chin.  Fitzpatrick  had  a  wonderful 
chin;  one  was  inclined  to  take  notice  of  it  the  first  time 
he  met  the  man.  It  extended  some  distance  beyond  his 
teeth,  and  was  square  and  firm.  A  chin  that  was  set  in 
such  a  fashion  and  did  not  recede,  was,  they  argued,  an 
evidence  of  will.  So  be  it. 

Chins  were  carefully  observed  at  once,  and  lo,  the 
druggist  was  the  only  one  with  a  chin  that  was  inclined 
to  disappear.  It  was  plain  at  first  glance,  that  not  one 
of  more  than  a  dozen,  possessed  a  chin  the  equal  of 
Fitzpatrick. 

256 


THE  DISAPPEARING  CHIN  257 

It  was  then  that  Sidney  began  to  see  everybody's  chin, 
apart  from  every  other,  the  moment  he  met  a  person. 
When  he  had  come  back  again  among  his  own,  after 
eleven  years,  his  observation  began  to  reveal  chins,  which 
according  to  the  argument  related,  were,  to  say  the  least, 
discouraging.  Almost  two-thirds  of  his  people  possessed 
the  disappearing  chin.  A  bad  sign,  he  was  positive,  but 
they  had  it,  and  he  now  studied  this  race  to  which  he 
belonged,  very  carefully,  and  from  an  every  day  and 
practical  point  of  view.  He  did  not  attempt  a  scientific 
study,  for,  in  the  first  place,  he  knew  little  of  science, 
and  in  the  second  place,  to  understand  life  from  a  prac 
tical  point  of  view,  and  to  apply  one's  thoughts  and 
efforts  to  that  end,  seemed  to  him  a  more  profitable 
occupation.  In  this  research,  he  met  many  of  his  people 
who  had  gone  through  college,  knew  everything  from  the 
dark  ages  to  Caesar,  but  many  of  them  couldn't  have 
bounded  the  state  which  they  called  home,  for  they  paid 
little  attention  to  their  surroundings.  As  he  became 
better  acquainted  with  them,  he  was  disappointed  upon 
finding  them  ignorant.  At  the  same  time,  they  had 
little  appreciation  for  another's  viewpoint,  unless  he  had 
been  to  school  and  graduated  from  college. 

Having  digressed,  we  will  attempt  to  return  to  the 
story. 

The  druggist  was  not  an  assuming  person,  and  ad 
mitted,  very  gracefully,  to  the  fact  that  he  possessed 
neither  will  nor  determination;  but,  as  Sidney  Wyeth 
knew  his  people,  he  did  not  expect  many  to  be  so  frank. 

So,  it  came  about  that  when  he  met  Miss  Palmer, 
almost  the  first  thing  he  took  notice  of  when  she  came 
out  of  the  darkness  to  the  porch,  was  that  she  possessed 
a  chin,  the  point  of  which  was  far  beyond  the  lips.  It 
was  that  fact  more  than  any  other,  that  caused  him  to 
try  in  every  way  possible,  to  secure  her  services.  As  we 
have  stated,  he  had  little  confidence  in  chinless  persons, 
a  fact,  which  was  so  much  in  evidence  among  his  people. 

So,  when  he  had  known  Miss  Palmer  a  few  weeks,  and 
had  been  convinced,  from  a  practical  point  of  view,  that 
she  did  possess  will  in  keeping  with  the  set  of  her  chin, 

17 


258  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

he  confided  the  fact  to  her.  She  smiled  very  modestly, 
and,  of  course,  deplored  it;  but,  nevertheless,  he  caught 
her  studying  the  reflection  of  it  more  than  once,  when 
a  mirror  was  convenient. 

That  Miss  Palmer  was  determined,  vigorous,  possessed 
courage  and  had  strength  of  her  convictions,  was  a  posi 
tive  fact.  When  she  made  up  her  mind  to  do  a  thing, 
if  she  failed,  it  was  because  it  was  beyond  the  range  of 
reasonable  effort  to  accomplish  it.  And  it  was  shortly 
after  this,  that  Wyeth  discovered  that  such  a  fortune 
could  be  superabundant.  That  is,  a  person  could  be 
endowed  with  so  many  of  these  helpful  qualities  that  it 
passed  beyond  the  range  of  judgment  to  assert  them. 
This  happened  to  be  what  he  discovered  in  Miss  Palmer. 
He  regretted  it  too,  because  he  had  begun  to  admire  her. 

The  presence  of  these  aggressive  facts,  began  later  to 
result  in  a  change  in  their  regard  for  each  other.  They 
disagreed  in  their  point  of  view,  and,  still  later,  they 
came  to  a  crash,  literally. 

For  Miss  Palmer  was,  in  addition  to  the  agreeable  and 
admirable  things  he  had  discovered,  pretentious  to  an 
alarming  degree.  And  it  was  this,  which  caused  the 
trouble. 

Our  pen  has  not  before  had  occasion  to  relate  that 
the  change  in  the  life  of  Sidney  Wyeth,  from  the  prairies- 
to  the  present,  was  due,  in  a  great  measure,  to  the  evil 
genius  of  an  overly  busy  person.  And  yet,  such  was  the 
fact.  Therefore,  being  an  observing  character,  and  real 
izing  these  qualities,  but  not  appreciating  them  in  the 
creature  whom  he  would  always  despise,  he  did,  above 
all  else,  wish  to  avoid  a  person  thus  richly  endowed. 
He  had  declared  many  a  time,  that  he  trusted  the  diamond 
back  rattlers  that  infested  the  prairies,  more  than  he  did 
an  unduly  pretentious,  ostentatious  person. 

Therefore,  when  he  came  to  notice  these  qualities  in 
Miss  Palmer,  it  led  to  frequent  disagreements.  And  yet, 
withal,  no  one  could  altogether  dislike  Miss  Palmer. 
There  came  a  time  when  he  felt,  that  if  she  did  not  try 
to  argue  on  everything  that  came  up,  without  first 


THE  DISAPPEARING  CHIN  259 

attempting  to  equip  herself  with  a  few  facts  bearing  on 
the  subject,  and  which  would  serve  to  substantiate  her 
argument,  he  could  have  overlooked  much  of  her  pretense. 
But,  as  he  came  to  know  her  better,  she  argued  on  every 
thing,  and  sought  to  force  her  conclusions  upon  the 
other,  when  her  knowledge  was  quite  foreign  to  the 
question  on  hand.  She  literally  murdered  facts.  And, 
as  time  went  on,  he  saw  that  her  aim  was,  very  often, 
merely  to  dominate,  with  no  apparent  regard  for  what 
might  be  learned  by  careful  listening. 

In  Effingham,  as  in  every  other  town,  Wyeth  had  dis 
covered,  among  his  people,  a  set  who  claimed  to  be  the 
more  elite;  they  were  the  more  intelligent,  and  called 
themselves  society.  On  his  pilgrimage,  he  had  never 
sought  to  become  a  part  of  this  society. 

In  Effingham,  Sidney  came  to  see  this  phase  a  little 
clearer  than  before,  due  to  his  acquaintance  with  Miss 
Palmer — that  is,  that  side  of  it,  the  woman's  side.  As 
for  the  men,  he  met  that  at  the  drug  store,  where  he  had 
relieved  the  druggist  of  two  dollars,  and  where  the  more 
elite  gathered  and  indulged.  Arguments  were  usually  in 
process  there,  he  soon  saw;  and  when  not  so  engaged, 
they  gambled  and  drank  to  an  alarming  degree,  in  the 
back  room,  and  secluded,  where  he  was  not  invited. 
Cards  were  the  custom;  but  soon  craps,  he  heard,  be 
came  more  conspicuous.  The  druggist  was  "a"  shooter, 
and  won  quite  frequently,  so  'twas  said. 

Miss  Palmer  took  pride— as  well  she  might — in  in 
forming  Wyeth  of  the  fact  that  she  was  a  member  of  the 
colored  society  of  Effingham,  and  proved  it  by  entertain 
ing  until  she  was  ever  bankrupt;  she  was  always  up 
against  it  for  money;  and  this  fact,  no  doubt,  brought 
her  to  selling  books,  as  a  means  to  make  ends  meet 
during  vacation.  But  Miss  Palmer  did  not,  could  not, 
of  course,  be  expected  to  admit  such  a  thing.  She  could 
have  said  nothing  about  it,  which  would  have  been  as 
dignified;  but  she  made  it  a  point  to  appraise  Wyeth 
of  the  fact,  that  she  only  did  it  to  help  him,  at  which 
times  she  would  smile,  and  show  her  little  teeth.  "I 
like  you  so  much,"  and  she  would  smile  again,  "that  it  is 
my  great  and  ardent  desire  to  help  you/' 


260  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

Sidney  had  never  appreciated  it  in  this  way. 

At  Miss  Palmers*  could  often  be  found  a  gathering  of 
teachers,  of  which  Effingham,  with  its  sixty  thousand 
black  people,  had  many.  And  these,  to  whom  the 
masses  looked  to  for  tutor,  he  studied  very  carefully. 
He  had,  as  before  stated,  never  shown  them  the  book; 
but  the  surprise  of  it  was,  that  Miss  Palmer  had  not 
done  so  either. 

In  one  of  the  little  suburbs,  where  they  had  canvassed, 
he  recalled  a  row  of  very  attractive  homes  occupied  by 
the  more  respectable  colored  people.  Miss  Palmer  had 
canvassed  there  very  carefully,  and  had  sold  the  book  to 
nearly  every  one,  but  she  had  as  carefully  avoided  show 
ing  it  to  a  professor,  who  occupied  the  most  imposing  of 
the  row.  He  had  not  said  anything,  but,  of  course,  he 
could  scarcely  help  noticing  this  careful  avoidance  of  all 
houses  where  teachers  lived.  In  some  manner,  the 
matter  came  up  one  day,  and  Miss  Palmer  merely 
remarked  that  the  teachers  were  all  broke,  would  be  so, 
until  school  opened  again. 

Sidney  had  surpressed  his  criticism.  But  one  day  he 
called  on  Miss  Palmer.  He  was  just  in  time  to  meet  a 
white  woman  coming  out.  The  latter  turned  and  thanked 
Miss  Palmer  for  her  kindness  in  giving  her  the  list  of 
thirty  teachers,  with  the  suggestion  that  they  would  be 
interested  in  the  set  of  books  for  which  she  was  agent. 
The  lady  had  sold  to  twenty-five  of  that  number,  not 
counting  Miss  Palmer,  who  had  cheerfully  started  the 
list.  And  the  books  were  in  twenty  volumes,  at  one 
dollar  each. 

Of  course,  Miss  Palmer  showed  them  to  her  friend 
with  much  ado,  stating  that  the  same  would  be  so  help 
ful  to  her  in  her  school  work.  He  said  it  was  very  nice; 
but  he  wondered  just  what  particular  help  the  books 
could  be  to  these  teachers,  for  the  set  were  a  collected 
list  of  fiction,  with  no  care  as  to  whether  it  was  a 
work  of  specific  interest.  The  set  included  many  volumes, 
by  authors  who  issued  a  book  every  sixty  days,  all  of 
which  were  on  sale  at  any  bookseller,  or  by  mail  at  that 
time,  and  for  some  time  past,  at  fifty  cents  a  volume,  or 


THE  DISAPPEARING  CHIN  261 

twenty  copies  from  the  publishers  at  forty-five  cents 
each. 

Of  course,  Miss  Palmer  did  not  know  this,  or  any  of 
the  other  twenty-five  teachers  out  of  the  thirty  who  had 
purchased — and  lest  we  forget,  it  was  this  lack  of  knowl 
edge  that  had  cost  the  druggist  two  dollars,  because  he 
had  been  shown  a  work  by  one  of  his  race,  with  a  sug 
gestion  to  buy.  The  fact  uppermost  in  the  mind  of 
Sidney  was,  that  the  teachers  with  few  exceptions,  scar 
cely  needed  any  such  work  to  teach  black  children.  Many 
of  them  would  be  unlikely  to  read  as  many  as  half  a 
dozen  of  the  books  in  their  lifetime.  And  yet,  by  borrow 
ing  the  book,  they  were  reading  The  Tempest.  Some 
were  even  contemptible  in  their  criticism;  but  all  of 
them  borrowed  it  and  read  it,  including  Miss  Palmer; 
and  she  admitted  it  was  the  only  book  she  had  read  that 
season,  other  than  what  she  was  compelled  to  read  by 
the  board  of  education. 

But  all  of  these  people  felt  they  were  sacrificing  every 
thing  for  their  race,  and  would  deplore  it,  were  they  told 
that  such  was  not  true. 

But  the  teachers  were  nice;  much  more  interesting  to 
talk  to  than  the  common  herd.  They  could,  almost  all, 
smile  beautifully;  and  they  could  pronounce  their  Eng 
lish  more  correctly,  employing  their  "r's,"  and  inter 
spersing  their  discourse  with  a  clever  toss  of  the  head  or 
twinkle  of  the  eye;  and  when  one  of  the  race,  who  had 
been  successful,  married,  he  invariably  picked  a  teacher. 
They  were  sensible  enough  to  realize  that  a  husband  who 
could  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door,  was  a  treasure 
to  be  appreciated.  It  was  thus  Sidney  Wyeth  found 
teachers.  But  he  could  not  understand  why  they  seldom 
appreciated  Negro  literature  to  the  point  of  purchasing, 
since  they  were  engaged  in  the  teaching. 

Miss  Palmer  was  buying  a  small  home  in  one  of  the 
suburbs,  and  which  was  all  she  could  boast  of  owning. 
As  we  know  her,  she  secured  her  living  by  teaching  nine 
months  in  the  year,  at  forty  dollars  a  month.  And  as  we  now 
know,  she  must  perforce  earn  something  during  vacation, 
which  was  the  real  reason  for  selling  Wyeth's  book.  So, 


262  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

from  what  we  know  of  her,  there  is  no  reason  why  she 
should  not  have  been  conspicuous  in  colored  society, 
since  the  masses,  unfortunately,  are  all  poor.  Hence, 
wealth  cannot  be  the  dividing  line,  else  there  would  be 
no  society  whatever. 

Miss  Palmer  showed  more  ostentation  as  their  ac 
quaintance  lengthened.  Sidney  was  now  thirty;  and 
since  nineteen,  he  had  lived  on  the  western  ranges. 
And,  as  is  usually  the  case,  western  people  are  great 
readers.  But  here,  his  people  did  not  read.  Not  that 
they  could  not  do  so,  but  because  it  was  apparently  not  a 
preference;  considering  the  fact  that  few  seemed  to  care 
for  much  reading  beyond  a  newspaper  sensation.  And, 
as  he  met  the  more  elite,  he  was  surprised  that  they  paid 
so  little  attention  to  the  condition  of  the  masses.  Murder, 
as  we  have  seen,  was  an  established  habit.  Of  all  those 
he  had  met,  the  teachers  impressed  Wyeth  as  having  the 
least  regard  for  conditions.  In  other  words,  "they  never 
worried."  They  dressed  the  best  their  means  would 
afford,  and  aped  the  rest,  which  was  easy.  And  this 
he  found  so  prevalent,  that  he  was,  at  times,  dreadfully 
bored  by  it  all.  But  he  was  relieved  when  he  looked 
deeper,  to  find  that  the  people  who  were  actually  succeed 
ing  in  doing  something,  paid  little  attention  to  this  set, 
which  dominated  society.  But  the  set  claimed  them,  never 
theless. 

As  he  had  known  society  from  reading  of  it  only,  he 
had  judged  that  literature  was  one  of  its  chief  features — 
but  not  so  with  this.  Gossip  and  hearsay  were  more  in 
keeping,  and  obviously  more  appreciated. 

Wyeth  was  a  literary  man  now  for  the  sake  of  gaining 
a  livelihood;  but  he  had  studied  it,  as  we  know,  from  a 
modern  point  of  view.  He  had  never,  however,  any 
difference  of  opinion  with  them,  for  so  few  knew  of  the 
late  books,  purchased  few,  and  most  of  them  not 
any  magazines  of  interest.  Not  one  in  a  dozen  even 
read  the  race's  only  periodical,  The  Climax:  though  the 
editor  had  once  been  one  of  them,  and  had  written  a 
book,  a  novel.  It  was  a  failure,  from  a  financial  point  of 
view. 


THE  DISAPPEARING  CHIN  263 

The  fiction  they  knew  and  talked  of  was  in  the  order 
of  Rip  Van  Winkle,  Ben  Hur  and  St.  Elmo. 

One  day,  when  arguments  were  abundant,  it  came  to  a 
point  where  Wyeth  made  mention  of  the  fact  that  so 
few  teachers  showed  any  interest  in  current  events; 
did  not  read  the  magazines,  and  Negro  literature  they 
almost  held  in  contempt. 

"Is  it  because  they  feel  that  no  Negro  knows  enough 
to  write  anything  they  would  care  to  read?" 

"The  idea,"  cried  Miss  Palmer,  indignant.  "All  the 
teachers  take  the  magazines,  and  as  for  Negro  literature, 
it  has  been  the  teachers  who  have  robbed  themselves  to 
make  the  same  possible." 

"And  yet  other  than  'Up  From  Bondage'  and  the 
works  of  the  dead  poet,  you  can  seldom  find  a  volume 
by  a  Negro  author  in  any  of  their  houses.  .  .  .  And,  if  I 
have  investigated  correctly,  ninety  per  cent  of  this  was 
placed  there,  after  the  white  people  had  bought  it  and 
proclaimed  the  authors  great.  In  the  many  houses  I 
have  been  in  with  you,  I  have  not  yet  seen  any  of  Derwin's. 
Though  one  of  them  he  wrote,  and  which  is  named  after 
our  souls,  had  a  great  sale  among  the  white  people  even." 

"I  cannot  see,  nor  appreciate  either,  your  point  of 
view  with  regard  to  the  teachers'  lack  of  literary  interest, 
when  not  two  weeks  ago,  twenty-six  teachers  among  a 
list  of  thirty,  purchased  a  set  of  twenty  volumes  each, 
and  which  cost  them  all  that  many  dollars." 

"And  every  volume  by  an  author  few  know  of,  further 
than  that  he  was  white,  and,  therefore,  knew  something," 
he  retorted. 

It  ended  there  and  they  were  both  relieved  that  it  did; 
but  neither  forgot  it. 

Effingham,  with  its  sixty  thousand  black  people,  had 
scores  of  drug  stores  which  sold  literature.  Many  news 
stands  also  did  such  a  business  exclusively.  There  were 
four  drug  stores  operated  by  colored  people,  and,  like 
Attalia,  not  one  sold  magazines  and  newspapers  as  a  side 
line;  nor  did  any  sell  literature,  which  were  operated  by 
whites  that  depended  upon  Negro  trade.  Granting,  of 
course,  that  many  colored  people  bought  such  at  white 


264  THE1FORGED  NOTE 

places,  when  they  desired  to  read,  it  may  reasonably  be 
imagined  how  much  literature  was  in  demand  among  the 
colored  people. 

Wyeth  usually  purchased  a  work  of  fiction  weekly,  and 
sometimes  more;  while  some  weeks,  of  course,  he  omitted 
this  custom.  One  day,  he  was  asked  by  the  clerk  of  the 
leading  book  store  in  Effingham,  what  he  did  with  so 
many  books  when  he  had  read  them.  "We  have  sold," 
he  said,  "seven  copies  of  the  book  you  sold  us;  but  I 
guess  you'll  be  surprised  to  know  that  we  have  not,  as 
yet,  sqld  one  to  a  Negro."  Wyeth  was  not  surprised, 
but  didn't  say  so.  "That  ad  we  placed  in  the  colored 
paper,  and  have  had  standing  a  month,  would  bring 
dozens  of  curious  white  people  in  to  see  what  it  was. 
And,  of  course,  some  would  purchase  it  to  see  what  was 
said.  Then,  if  the  contents  did  not  thrill  or  please, 
indifference  would  follow.  But  when  nobody  buys,  not 
even  inquires,  we  can  only  feel  that  your  people  don't 
have  much  interest  in  books,  and  we  have  had  the  same 
experience  before."  He  smiled  when  he  had  finished,  a 
smile  that  was  embarrassed.  He  disliked  to  say  it, 
apparently,  but  when  Wyeth  was  so  pleasant,  he  added: 
"We  have  bought  what  few  books  your  race  has  written, 
for  the  purpose  of  sale,  and  have  naturally  expected  some 
evidence  of  interest  from  them,  by  a  call  and  an  occasional 
purchase.  And  I  am  telling  you  the  truth,  if  we  depended 
on  them  to  unload  this  stuff  from  our  shelves,  it  would 
be  there  yet,  as  some  of  it  is.  You  have  personally 
bought  more  literature,  in  the  way  of  current  books, 
since  you  came  in  here,  than  all  the  rest  of  your  people 
in  this  town  together." 

Wyeth  went  his  way  then,  but  he  was  no  longer  sur 
prised,  as  he  once  was,  for  he  had  heard  that  many  times 
before. 

One  day  shortly  after,  Wyeth  happened  in  at  the 
druggist's  place,  the  hot  bed  of  argument.  He  inquired 
why  a  few  magazines  were  not  carried  in  stock. 

"Hell!"  cried  that  one,  throwing  his  hands  up  in  a 
gesture  of  despair  and  mingled  disgust,  "nigga's  don't 
read." 


THE  DISAPPEARING  CHIN  265 

The  following  Sunday  morning,  when  the  drug  store 
was  full,  he  happened  to  mention  a  new  book  he  had, 
and  which  many  of  the  idlers  were  inspecting,  one  by  one, 
asking  to  borrow  it  when  he  was  through.  He  suggested 
that  it  was  on  sale  uptown,  then  quoted  the  words  of 
the  clerk,  who  had  remarked  that  he,  Wyeth,  bought  more 
books  than  did  the  rest  of  the  colored  people  put  together. 

He  was  hooted  down,  so  there  was  no  argument.  Each 
was  positive  that  his  friend  had  bought  one;  while  that 
friend  was  likewise  of  the  same  opinion.  And  of  the 
many,  almost  every  one  had  read  the  book  he  wrote, 
having  borrowed  it  from  someone  who  had  bought  it. 
The  druggist  then  offered  an  excuse  for  the  absence  of 
literature  at  his  store,  by  declaring  that  almost  all  the 
people  subscribed,  and  the  same  came  through  mail. 

Miss  Palmer  and  he  were  certainly  very  forgetful. 

Literature  was  a  dead  issue,  that  could  not  be  denied; 
but  whiskey  was  not. 

Effingham  had  no  library  for  its  black  people,  and  they 
were  not  allowed  the  privilege  of  the  white.  Yet  a  part 
of  their  tax  was  paid  to  support  the  same.  Still,  no  one 
gave  that  much  thought,  insofar  as  Wyeth  could  ascer 
tain.  When  he  mentioned  it  to  the  teachers,  almost 
without  exception  they  replied:  "No  use.  Negroes  don't 
read/'  And  it  was  so  everywhere.  Yet  every  class  but 
the  doctors  and  teachers  purchased  The  Tempest,  when 
it  was  brought  to  their  attention,  and  Wyeth  even  sold 
to  three  of  these  (two  doctors  and  one  teacher)  in  Effing- 
ham  that  summer. 

No,  no  one  he  met  had  any  worry  about  a  library; 
but  thousands  of  black  children  ran  wild  day  by  day 
upon  their  streets,  went  to  jail  in  great  numbers  before 
they  were  of  age,  and  filled  convict  camps  as  members  of 
chain  gangs  long  before  they  could  be  called  even  young 
men.  There  was  no  library,  nor  was  there  a  park;  but 
there  were  plenty  of  other  places  conducive  to  crime. 
And  still  Effingham  had  more  than  a  hundred  Negro 
churches. 

"Can  you  not  realize,  that  in  your  absence  of  such 
necessities  for  the  training  of  these  little  black  children, 


266  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

that  you  are  growing  children  for  the  chain  gang  every 
day?"  But  this  never  aroused  any  visible  concern. 
And  sometimes  they  did  say,  emphatically: 

"Aw,  we  don't  need  no  library;  and  if  we  had  a  park 
for  colored  people,  they  would  do  nothing  but  fight  in 
it."  And  still  others  would  cry:  "Git  religion!  'n' 
read  d'  Bible;  pr'pare  y'self  fo'  Heaben."  And  still 
others  were  in  disgust,  as  they  replied:  "A  nigga  ain' 
going  to  'mount  to  no  thin'  nohow,  so  what's  the  use?" 

"A  library  could  be  obtained,  if  the  conditions  here 
were  brought  to  the  attention  of  the  northern  philan 
thropists,"  he  suggested  to  Miss  Palmer,  whereupon  she' 
cried: 

"Oh,  Mr.  Wyeth,  you  bore  me  with  your  contention 
about  libraries  and  parks  and  Y.  M.  C.  A.'s  and  the  like. 
These  nigga's  in  Effingham  are  not  worrying  about  such 
things;  so  why  should  you,  a  stranger,  a  mere  observer, 
be  so  concerned!" 

"Because,  Miss  Palmer,  I  cannot  help  but  see  all  this 
murder  and  crime  going  on,  which  is  undermining  the 
foundation  of  colored  society.  Every  day,  when  my 
paper  comes,  it's  murder,  murder,  murder,  and  fully 
ninety  per  cent  is  among  our  people,  although  only  two- 
fifths  of  the  population  is  Negro." 

"Haven't  I  told  you  all  along,  that  the  crime  is  among 
the  low  down,  whiskey  drinking,  depraved  element,  and 
not  among  the  best  people?" 

"Yes,  but  this  country  cannot  exist  in  peace  and 
prosperity  and  happiness;  nor  can  this  race,  with  the 
greater  part  ignorant,  criminal  and  depraved.  The  more 
intelligent  have,  for  their  duty,  the  task  of  helping  in 
any  way  possible,  and  by  so  doing,  lift  these  unfortunates 
into  a  state  of  intelligence  and  self-respect." 

"Well,"  she  contended,  resignedly,  "that  is  for  the 
churches  to  do,  there's  enough  of  them." 

"And  the  teachers,  because  they  are  looked  to, 
should  help  as  much  as  they  can  with  their  higher  intel 
ligence,  for  the  mothers  are  too  ignorant  and  too  de 
praved  to  do  so.  But  of  the  many  churches,  of  which 


THE  DISAPPEARING  CHIN  267 

seventy  are  Baptist,  not  one  has  any  connection  or 
interest  in  a  school  here,  directly  or  indirectly." 

"I  begin  to  think  you  are  going  to  lose  your  mind,  if 
you  don't  quit  seeing  the  many  iniquities  of  our  people. 
If  you  would  only  see  what  the  good  people  are  doing, 
and  try  to  interest  yourself  more  in  them,  you  would  be 
happier/'  she  said.  He  sighed  now,  and  then  said  to 
himself:  "What's  the  use." 

"Quit  it  all,  Sidney,"  she  said  softly,  calling  him  for 
the  first  time  by  his  first  name.  "Quit  all  this  worry 
about  these  nigga's  and  be  yourself;  be  sweet."  And 
she  kissed  him. 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

"Wilson,  Wilson!   Mildred  Is  Gone!" 

"Wilson,  Wilson!  Mildred  is  gone,  Mildred  is  gone!" 
cried  Constance,  ringing  her  hands  despairingly. 

"Gone,"  he  breathed,  uncomprehendingly. 

"Yes,  gone."  His  sister  sank  into  a  chair,  and  gave 
up  to  a  flood  of  tears. 

"But  why?"  he  cried,  only  now  seeming  to  under 
stand  that  she  had  actually  left  them. 

"I  don't  know,  I  don't  know,"  she  moaned. 

"This  is  certainly  a  mystery.  Surely  dear,  you  are 
mistaken,"  he  insisted,  greatly  disturbed.  "Mildred 
would  surely  not  have  left  us  so  unceremoniously.  And, 
besides — why,  she — she,  Constance,  why  she  gave  one 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars  to  the  Christian  association 
movement  only  today.  And  you  cannot  mean  that  she 
has  gone!  It  is  hardly  possible!" 

"I  only  wish  it  were  not  so;  but  come,"  and,  taking 
his  hand,  she  led  him  to  the  room  Mildred  had  occupied. 
It  was  deserted,  save  for  the  furniture  that  belonged 
there.  Only  once  had  he  seen  the  inside  of  it  while  she 
occupied  it.  And  now  it  did  not  appear  the  same; 
because  then,  it  was  decorated  with  much  lace  and 
woman's  needle  work  and  picture  postals.  But,  strange 
as  he  had  thought,  when  he  happened  to  glance  into  it 
before,  there  were  no  pictures  of  girls  and  men,  young  or 
old,  nobody  excepting  the  picture  of  the  author  of  the 
book  which  she  sold,  and  which  had  been  taken  from  the 
frontispiece. 

"This  is  the  way  I  found  it  when  I  came  home  a  few 
minutes  ago,"  she  said,  resigned.  "I  cannot  make  it  out; 
I  cannot  make  anything  out,  except  that  the  sweetest 
friend,  the  dearest  girl  I  ever  knew,  has  disappeared 
strangely." 

268 


WILSON,  WILSON!  MILDRED  IS  GONE    269 

"She  sang  at  the  meeting  only  a  few  hours  ago,  and 
sang  as  I  never  heard  her  sing  before.  She  was,  more 
over,  in  the  best  of  spirits  all  day,  and  was  so  enthusiastic 
over  the  meeting.  Dear  me,"  he  sighed  wearily. 

"If  she  had  only  left  some  word;  given  some  hint 
that  she  was  going  to  leave,  but,  of  course  she  knew, 
and  couldn't  tell  us,  so  there  is  no  use  at  all.  She's 
gone  and  I  cannot  imagine  how  much  I  am  going  to 
miss  her." 

Her  brother  sank  into  a  chair,  and  gazed  silently  at 
nothing.  He  could  not  think  clearly  of  the  departure. 
For  days  he  had  slaved  for  this  day  of  inauguration,  and 
in  his  work,  he  had  looked  forward  to  her  for  much  help. 
Her  encouragement,  to  be  near  her  and  to  hear  her  voice 
daily,  was  more  to  him  than  our  pen  can  describe.  He 
had  felt  that  he  could  face  the  mighty  struggle  (which 
he  knew  was  now  before  him)  with  all  the  strength  of 
the  strong;  but  now  only,  he  fully  estimated  what  she 
had  been  to  him,  and  what  he  had  dreamed  that  she 
would  be  some  day.  And  all  that,  was  now  cast  aside; 
in  this  one  moment,  his  hope,  his  greatest  hope  had 
been  shattered. 

His  sister  looked  at  him,  and  for  a  moment,  almost 
fell  on  her  knees  in  sympathy.  For  she  had  not  been 
blind.  She  had  seen  the  change  coming  over  him,  with 
no  thought  but  to  encourage  him.  Constance  had  faith 
and  patience  and  perseverance,  and  she  had  felt  that 
everything  would  result  favorably  in  the  end. 

And  then  she  had  watched  this  girl  during  that  spell 
of  a  short  time  ago.  She  had  seen  her  appearance  change, 
as  the  result  of  some  mystery.  Her  eyes  became  dazed 
from  loss  of  sleep,  due  to  the  worry  and  subtle  fear.  It 
was  then,  with  great  cheer,  that  she  saw  it  disappear 
later,  until  she  was  the  same  again.  Constance  was 
happy  then,  because  the  other  was  happy.  She  had 
been  happier  still,  because  she  saw  that,  without  effort, 
the  other  was  making  her  brother  happy.  He  had  fairly 
thrived  under  it. 

Constance  felt  that  his  lot  was  a  hard  one.  She  was 
confident  that  he  would4be  a  Jeader  of  men,  in  a  greater 


270  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

measure  than  he  was  at  the  present.  And  when  she  had 
carefully  observed  the  practical  ability,  as  well  as  the 
intuition  and  foresight  of  Mildred  Latham,  she  had 
longed,  with  all  the  craving  of  her  heart,  for  a  union 
between  these  two. 

And,  as  she  saw  her  brother  now,  with  eyes  dry  and 
listless,  her  heart  went  out  to  him  with  all  of  a  sister's 
love.  It  pained  her  more,  when  she  realized  that  she 
could  not  help  him.  She  would  have  to  stand  by  and 
say  nothing,  at  the  very  time  he  needed  her  more  than 
ever  before.  He  was  too  strong  a  man  by  disposition; 
he  possessed  too  much  will  power,  and  was  too  proud 
to  ask  or  accept  sympathy.  It  would  all  have  to  be 
given  in  silence. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  She  heard  steps  on 
the  porch,  and  guessed  it  was  the  people  calling  in  regard 
to  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  And  it  was  only  then  she  recalled, 
that  they  had  been  invited  to  a  supper.  She  called  to 
him: 

"Wilson,  some  one  has  called."  She  went  to  the  door 
and  admitted  a  dozen  persons,  members  of  the  church, 
and  foremost  enthusiasts  in  the  Christian  forward  move 
ment. 

"Well,  well!"  Martin  Girsh,  principal  of  the  local 
high  school  cried,  coming  in  ahead  of  the  others.  "You 
are  both  sitting  here  at  home,  when  we  have  been  looking 
all  around  for  you.  And  you  both  show  the  effect  of  the 
strain  you  have  been  laboring  under,  in  this  affair." 
He  said  this  after  he  had  seen  the  look  upon  their  faces, 
their  efforts  at  self-possession,  which  they  could  not  hide. 
They  were  glad  he  saw  it  that  way. 

"Where  is  the  young  lady,  the  dear  young  lady  who 
showed  such  an  interest  in  the  movement  by  giving  such 
a  liberal  sum?"  inquired  one,  and  it  was  immediately 
taken  up  by  the  others.  It  required  an  effort  on  the 
part  of  both,  to  explain  that  she  was  out  and  would  not 
be  back  again  that  evening.  .  .  . 

"Isn't  that  too  bad!  And  all  of  us  were  simply  wild 
to  meet  her,  to  hear  her  sing,  and  to  know  more  of  this 
courageous  young  person,"  said  the  professor,  with  much 
regret. 


WILSON,  WILSON!  MILDRED  IS  GONE    271 

"She  is  positively  a  jewel,  to  say  the  least.  Upon  my 
honor/'  cried  another,  who  was  a  letter  carrier,  "I  didn't 
know  she  was  such  a  treasure  until  she  sang,  and  when 
she  led  them  all  in  a  cash  subscription,  I  declared  I 
would  have  to  become  better  acquainted  with  her." 

"I  had  heard  her  play  and  sing,  but,  indeed,  I  didn't 
know  she  possessed  such  a  voice  before." 

"Suppose  we  arrange  a  banquet  for  this  young  lady, 
have  her  cut  in  the  paper,  and  let  the  people  know  what 
a  race-spirited  young  woman  we  have  in  this  town," 
suggested  one.  The  others  took  it  up  by  acclamation. 
Wilson's  eyes  found  his  sister's,  with  a  sickly  green 
expression.  And  then  he  heard  them  again. 

"When  can  we  arrange  this,  Wilson?  It  is  left  to  you 
and  Miss  Jacobs  to  set  a  date.  The  incident  of  this 
young  woman's  contribution  to  the  colored  Y.  M.  C.  A., 
can  be  employed  to  a  great  advantage  in  the  inauguration 
of  this  movement." 

"Fire,  fire,  fire!"  came  an  alarm  from  the  street  at 
that  moment.  All  eyes  sought  the  front,  where,  directly 
across  the  street  and  one  door  down,  a  large  frame  house 
suddenly  burst  into  flames.  Forthwith  the  visitors 
rushed,  in  a  body.  A  wind  was  blowing  strongly  from 
the  west  at  that  moment,  and  the  conflagration  seemed 
to  draw  the  flames.  It  had  not  rained  for  some  time, 
and  in  an  incredibly  short  time,  the  beautiful  structure 
of  a  few  minutes  before,  was  beyond  saving.  From  the 
way  the  flames  were  fanned  by  the  wind,  they  threatened 
to  endanger  other  buildings. 

In  a  few  minutes,  the  place  was  surrounded  by  spec 
tators;  while  a  number  of  fire  departments  were  rushed 
to  the  scene  from  different  directions. 

It  was  hours  later  before  the  flames  were  subdued. 
Only  a  mass  of  charred  ruins  marked  the  place  where  the 
handsome  structure  had  stood. 

Services  at  the  churches  were  well  under  way  before 
many  of  the  watchers  left  the  scene,  and  the  number 
included  many  of  Jacob's  callers  who  had,  of  course,  for 
gotten  their  suggestion  to  entertain  Mildred  Latham,  in 
honor  of  the  beginning  of  the  effort  to  secure  aid  for  the 
colored  youth  of  the  city. 


272  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

As  they  sat  alone  that  evening,  neither  Wilson  Jacobs 
nor  his  sister  offered  any  comment  upon  how  they  were 
saved  an  embarrassing  ordeal.  They  were  both  thinking, 
thinking,  and  seeing,  with  their  eyes  full  of  tears,  a  chair 
where  one  had  sat  and  talked  and  laughed  with  them  the 
Sunday  night  before. 

Their  hearts  were  heavy,  very  heavy,  for,  strangely 
enough,  they  felt  that  Mildred  Latham  would  never  sit 
in  that  chair  again. 


CHAPTEK  SIXTEEN 

The  Beast  and  The  Jungle 
"REMEMBER  THE  SABBATH  DAY  AND  KEEP  IT  HOLY" 

This  was  the  inscription  under  a  cartoon  in  the  Effing- 
ham  Herald,  one  Sunday,  following  a  Sunday  when  crime 
seemed  to  have  run  riot.  The  cartoon  pictured  a  huge 
knife  stuck  into  a  human  heart,  and  the  moral  was,  that 
on  the  Sabbath  day,  when  its  population  was  supposed 
to  be  at  pious  worship,  murder  was  un-Godly. 

The  Sunday  previous  to  this,  seven  different 
murders  had  occurred  in  that  many  different  parts  of  the 
town.  Sidney  had  read  the  accounts,  and  said  nothing 
when  he  saw  they  were  all  black  people.  Only  one  ex 
ception,  and  that  was  one  who  had  shot  another,  and  in 
attempting  to  escape,  had  been  shot  by  the  police. 

Thus  was  the  condition  of  crime  in  Effingham.  It  was 
a  rare  Sunday  that  didn't  have  five  or  six  shootings, 
killings  and  cutting  affrays.  The  record  for  the  previous 
year  showed  more  than  three  hundred  murders,  mostly 
by  Negroes  upon  each  other,  and  in  part  by  the  police. 
Eighty  per  cent  of  all  murder  in  the  city  was  among  two- 
fifths  of  the  whole,  or  the  Negro  population.  But  what 
surprised  Wyeth  was,  that  insofar  as  speaking  of  it  as 
an  everyday  occurrence,  and  something  to  be  expected, 
the  colored  people  paid  little  attention  to  it. 

By  this  time,  Wyeth  had  become  known  as  a  severe 
critic.  And,  therefore,  against  colored  people  in  their 
effort  for  salvation,  so  the  critics  complained.  There  was 
one,  however,  who  saw  beneath  the  surface,  and  who 
said,  in  reply  to  the  criticisms  going  the  rounds,  that 
Wyeth  was  criticised,  not  for  the  criticisms,  but  for  his 
method  of  bringing  the  truth  before  the  eyes  which  did 
not  wish  to  see  it. 

18  273 


274  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"We've  tried  every  way  possible  to  obtain  a  library," 
said  one. 

"What  are  some  of  the  ways?"  he  inquired  pointedly. 

"Well,  for  instance,  we  have  asked  the  teachers  to 
each  give  a  book  for  that  purpose.  We  have  almost  two 
hundred  teachers  in  this  town,  and  if  each  one  gave  a 
book,  and  the  preachers  likewise,  that  would  make  con 
siderable  of  a  library." 

"For  sixty  thousand  people,  yes."  And  under  his 
breath  he  added,  "You  fool!" 

"Why  do  you  not  write  an  editorial  and  bring  attention 
to  the  dreadful  amount  of  crime  that  seems  to  have  sub 
merged  your  population,"  he  said  one  day  to  Mathews, 
a  very  excellent  writer. 

"I'm  writing  of  what  people  are  doing  that  is  up 
lifting,"  the  other  returned. 

"Do  you  not  consider  that  all  this  murder  the  Negro 
is  committing,  to  the  disgrace  of  the  state,  the  city,  the 
county,  and  the  race  to  which  he  belongs,  is  a  thing  that 
requires  some  effort,  or  some  comment  on  our  part  as 
citizens  of  this  commonwealth?" 

"Oh,  but  the  best  colored  people  don't  care  to  read  of 
that,"  he  explained. 

"But  it's  a  fact,  is  it  not;  and  one  that  is  going  forth 
every  day  through  the  columns  of  the  big  dailies,  and  a 
fact  that  the  public  is  making  record  of,  and  holds  up 
to  the  gaze  of  the  world,  and  gives  this  town  the  name 
of  being  the  most  uncivilized  community  in  the  country?" 

"There  is,  of  course,  Mr.  Wyeth,  no  use  in  trying  to 
argue  these  things  with  you,"  complained  the  other. 
"About  town,  although  you  have  been  here  only  a  short 
time,  you  are  regarded  as  a  contentious  person,  always 
forcing  your  way  of  seeing  things  upon  people,  and 
criticising  our  teachers  and  preachers  and  best  people  for 
their  lack  of  concern,  in  regard  to  a  lot  of  criminal  Negroes, 
that  find  their  way  to  this  town,  from  every  convict  camp 
in  the  state  and  other  states.  If  you  would  struggle  to 
get  into  society  and  mingle  with  the  best  people,  you 
would  forget  what  these  brutes  are  doing.  Instead  of 
that,  you  can  always]  be  seen  standing  at  a  distance, 
viewing  all  of  us  as  one." 


THE  BEAST  AND  THE  JUNGLE  275 

"Abraham  Lincoln,  our  emancipator,  said:  'This 
country  cannot  continue  with  one  part  of  the  people  free 
and  the  other  in  serfdom,  and  thrive/  I  am  wholly  at  a 
loss  to  understand  this  attitude  of  what  you  term  the 
'best  people'  toward  the  masses."  Wyeth  persisted, 
thoroughly  aroused.  "We  complain  of  the  injustice  of 
prejudice,  which  is  well  worth  the  complaint.  But,  while 
we  see  that  the  white  people  refuse  to  accept  us  on  an 
equal  basis  with  themselves,  we  cry  out  about  the  'best 
people/  We  cannot  expect  the  world  to  accept  us  as  a 
race  on  the  reputation  of  a  precious  few.  And  yet  right 
here  in  this  town,  on  all  sides,  among  the  'best  people' 
we  hear  that  'you'  cannot  be  responsible  for  the  condi 
tion  of  the  great  herd.  I  do  not  think  you  are  expected 
to  by  the  public;  but  what  stirs  me,  fires  me  sometimes 
to  denunciation,  is  this  utter  disregard  for  the  evil  things 
in  which  our  people  indulge  themselves,  to  the  disgrace 
of  all/' 

"Have  it  your  way,  Mr.  Wyeth,"  said  the  other, 
resignedly.  "That  is  the  reputation  you  have,  'having 
your  way/  ' 

This  was  the  end  of  that,  but  not  of  murder.  Every 
where  it  continued. 

Wyeth  went  to  the  churches.  He  listened  to  the 
sermons;  and  at  the  drug  store,  where  the  more  logical 
members  of  the  city  could  often  be  found,  he  met  the 
same  condition.  Nobody  was  worried.  Nobody  cared. 
Just  as  long  as  their  own  affairs  were  going  along  in  a 
satisfactory  manner,  no  complaint  was  forthcoming. 
And,  as  time  went  on,  Wyeth  took  notice  that  everybody 
carried  a  revolver.  One  evening,  at  the  drug  store,  some 
one  displayed  a  revolver  of  a  new  type,  which  brought 
about  some  comment.  Forthwith,  among  the  twelve 
present,  ten  additional  revolvers  were  produced  and  dis 
played,  Wyeth  being  the  only  one  not  possessing  one. 
He  was  looked  at  in  surprise,  and  made  the  object  of 
much  comment, 

"Why,  I  wouldn't  go  from  here  home  one  night,  with 
out  my  cannon,"  said  the  druggist.  A  prominent  doctor 
smiled  grimly,  as  he  pocketed  his^while  others  laughed 
and  patted  their  weaponsffondly. 


276  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"You  from  out  of  the  west  and  haven't  a  gun.  Man, 
you  are  crazy,"  laughed  one.  "You  better  send  out  west 
there,  and  have  them  send  on  that  dungeon." 

"I  never  owned  a  gun  in  my  life." 

"What!  Been  living  out  in  that  wild  country  these 
many  years,  and  never  owned  a  cannon!  What  kind  of 
people  do  you  have  out  there?" 

"Civilized  people." 

"Uh,  well,  I  ahV  never  been  without  a  smoker,  believe 
muh." 

"Hell  be  carrying  one  before  he's  here  long,"  laughed 
a  physician,  as  they  filed  out  into  the  night. 

More  conspicuously  here  than  elsewhere  he  had  been, 
Wyeth  saw  that  the  undertaking  business  thrived  better 
in  this  city  than  any  other  conducted  by  colored  people. 
A  half  dozen  companies  were  incorporated,  with  a  paid- 
up  capital  stock,  and  declared  handsome  dividends 
every  six  months.  And  each  company  owned  one  or 
more  ambulance  carriages,  or  "dead  wagons,"  as  they 
were  commonly  called  as  they  moved  busily  about  the 
streets,  picking  up  wounded  and  dead  Negroes.  Almost 
daily  they  whirled  through  the  town  at  break-neck  speed, 
to  the  tune  of  a  dreadful  alarm. 

Then  Wyeth  began  to  see,  without  looking,  why  crime 
thrived.  The  mills,  coal  mines  and  furnaces  employed 
thousands  of  men,  as  we  know,  and  paid  them  at  various 
times.  And  to  a  saloon  they  filed  and  drank  their  fill. 
In  his  observations,  Wyeth  had  never  seen  saloons  do 
such  an  excessive  bottle  business.  Great  cases,  the 
length  of  the  bar  in  many  instances,  and  piled  everywhere, 
were  half  pints  of  liquor.  A  man  said  to  him  one  day, 
"You'll  find,  upon  searching  the  ignorant  Negro,  three 
things  almost  any  time:  A  bottle  of  booze,  which  might 
be  empty  if  you  searched  him  at  his  work — a  cannon,  if 
not,  it  is  because  he  is  not  able  to  possess  one-ya  knife, 
with  a  blade  long  enough  to  go  through  you — additionally, 
a  pair  of  dice." 

But  it  was  not  at  the  saloons  that  they  bought  all  the 
whiskey,  regardless  of  the  great  number  in  sight.  But 


THE  BEAST  AND  THE  JUNGLE          277 

barrel  houses  and  wholesale  stores  were  operated  in  con 
nection  therewith.  Here  the  tiger  conductors  purchased 
their  supplies,  which  consisted  mostly  of  whiskey,  and  the 
cheapest  available,  which  was,  to  be  exact,  a  dollar  and  a 
half  a  gallon;  but,  if  bought  in  smaller  quantities,  it  came 
at  forty  cents  a  quart;  while  the  beer  used  by  the  tigers  was 
so  cheap  that  finally,  no  label  was  used  on  the  bottle.  And 
it  was  this  kind,  he  learned,  the  tiger  people  used  almost 
exclusively.  It  was  likewise,  this  kind  that  produced  the 
most  fighting  drunks,  and  was  sold  after  midnight — Satur 
day  night.  So,  on  the  outside  of  a  good  supply  of  drink 
and  a  crap  game  in  sight,  crime  ran  high  in  this  city,  and 
was  ever  in  continuance. 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

"This  Is  Mr.  Winslow,  Madam!'1 

After  his  conflict  with  Moore,  Legs  took  a  silent  pledge; 
he  would  quit  gambling  and  drinking,  and  start  a  bank 
account.  "I'm  going  to  use  some  sense  and  save  my 
money,"  he  declared,  with  much  sincerity.  "There  is 
nothing  like  a  few  dollars,  in  case  of  emergency." 

"If  you  stick  to  that  theory  in  practice,  Legs/'  Wyeth 
corroborated,  "you'll  never  have  cause  to  regret  it." 

He  started  the  same  at  once,  with  one  dollar.  The 
next  week  he  added  another,  which  made  two,  and  was 
jubilant.  The  next  week  he  added  another,  and  at  the 
end  of  four  weeks,  had  five  dollars  to  his  credit,  and  was 
discussing  investments.  "I'm  going  to  buy  me  a  house 
and  lot  by  and  by,"  he  said,  laughing  over  his  prospects. 

"I  own  the  L.  &  N.  R.  R.,"  cried  a  dirty,  black,  fat 
Negro,  coming  up  the  street.  "Haf  a  the  A.  G.  S.  too!" 

"That's  Sam,"  said  the  Mis',  coming  to  the  door  at 
that  moment.  "Ever  since  a  white  man  took  his  wife, 
they  say  he's  been  like  that.  He  imagines  he  owns  rail 
roads,  and  if  you  happen  to  be  going  by  the  station,  you 
can  see  him  standing  gazing  at  the  trains,  with  a  foreign 
expression." 

"Git  that  car  back  on  the  right  switch  there!  Flag 
that  engine,  and  make  them  push  that  section  to  the  left! 
All  right.  Now,  pull  her  ahead.  That's  all." 

"How-do,  Sam,"  she  greeted  him  as  he  came  abreast. 
He  halted  a  moment,  and  gazed  at  her  remonstratingly. 

"This  is  Mr.  Winslow,  madam.  Always  address  me  as 
such,  and  in  that  manner  hereafter.  I  am  Mr.  Winslow, 
understand,  and  I  own  the  L.  &  N.  R.  R." 

"And  the  A.  G.  S.?" 

"Own  haf  a  that  too." 

"And  the  T.  C.  I.  Company?" 

278 


"THIS  IS  MR.  WINSLOW,  MADAM!"       279 

"They  wanted  to  sell  it  to  me.  I  wouldn't  buy  it. 
Come  on  there  with  that  train,  engineer.  Drop  that  car 
on  siding  G.  Now,  switch  that  other  chain  around  on 
track  E. 

"Say,  Books,"  laughed  Legs.  "If  you  want  a  get  rich, 
quit  the  book  business,  and  run  into  a  train  with  your 
head.  That  guy  is  certainly  rich." 

"He  carries  on  that  way  all  the  time,"  the  Mis'  ex 
plained.  "But  he  is  sane  otherwise,  that  is,  he  is  harm 
less  and  lives  with  his  mother  down  the  street  a  few 
doors.  He  goes  errands,  and  you  can  give  him  as  much 
as  twenty  dollars  to  buy  a  nickel's  worth,  and  he'll  bring 
back  nineteen  dollars  and  ninety  five  cents  No  one  can 
beat  him,  and  he  is  as  honest  as  the  most  conservative." 

"Let's  go  to  a  movie,  Books,"  said  Legs,  when  Sam 
had  disappeared. 

"All  right,"  and  together,  they  went  down  the  street 
in  the  direction  of  the  business  district.  When  they  had 
arrived  at  one  of  the  three  shows,  the  pictures  did  not 
appeal  to  them,  and  they  strolled  about  the  town. 

The  bank,  conducted  by  Negroes,  was  near  the  center 
of  the  block,  and  cornered  on  the  alley,  and  on  either 
side  of  this  was  business  conducted  by  or  for  Negro 
trade.  Within  a  block  of  the  bank,  was  located  the  three 
shows;  and  while  operated  and  owned  by  white  men, 
were  patronized  entirely  by  Negroes.  It  was  a  puzzle 
to  Wyeth  to  see  his  people  operating  banks  with  more 
success  than  they  could  picture  shows,  clothing  stores, 
and  even  hotels.  This  was  the  case  not  only  in  Effing- 
ham,  but  in  other  cities  as  well.  The  bank  and  the 
neighborhood  immediately  surrounding  it,  was  the  center 
for  Negro  gatherings,  and  upon  this  street  might  be 
found  a  crowd  at  any  time.  Almost  every  other  door 
seemed  to  be  a  restaurant,  and  operated  by  Greeks.  In 
fact,  this  line  of  business  was,  apparently,  monopolized 
by  these  people  all  over  the  country.  Wyeth  saw  that 
this  was  due  to  social  reasons.  A  Greek  or  an  Italian,  or 
even  a  poor  Jew,  operating  a  business  like  a  grocery  store, 
or  any  kind  of  business,  employing  less  than  ten  thousand 
dollars  capital  stock,  lived  much  within  his  means; 


280  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

whereas,  a  colored  man  in  the  same  business,  invariably 
was,  through  the  connections  of  his  family,  a  leader  in 
society.  These  Greeks  did  not  even  pretend  such  a 
thing,  even  in  a  small  way  among  their  own,  which  made 
a  great  difference  at  the  end  of  each  year.  None  of  this 
class  referred  to  would  think  of  owning  an  automobile; 
whereas,  such  an  asset  is  common  among  these  black 
people.  Hence,  a  Negro  in  any  business  other  than  a 
barbershop,  bootblack  stand,  pressing  shop,  or  business 
requiring  a  considerable  amount  of  practical  ability, 
was  a  rare  thing. 

Being  in  business,  he  is  looked  to  to  spend  more  money, 
as  well.  This,  Wyeth  had  found,  was  not  always  his 
preference;  but  his  wife  and  family  usually  represented 
the  better  colored  people,  and,  therefore,  are  expected  to 
entertain;  are  made  the  object  of  much  flattery  and 
ostentation.  There  was  one  who  ran  a  grocery  near  Miss 
Palmer's,  whom,  Wyeth  recalled,  was  the  object  of  much 
scorn,  when  discussed.  More  than  once,  when  he  sug 
gested  "ar  purchase  of  a  watermelon,  or  soda  water,  or  some 
refreshment  that  might  be  obtained  at  a  grocery  store, 
he  was  advised  against  patronizing  the  "chinse"  on  the 
corner,  meaning  the  colored  grocery  keeper.  And  he 
came  to  learn,  that  the  only  excuse  for  such  a  reference, 
was  that  he  didn't  "keep"  his  wife  in  society,  but  made 
her  "slave"  in  his  little  old  store  along  with  himself. 

For  this,  he  was  given  as  little  of  their  trade  as  possible; 
but,  with  careful  application  and  perseverance,  he  was 
succeeding  to  a  creditable  degree.  But  the  most  extra 
ordinary  feature  of  this  was,  that  the  druggist  received 
no  more  of  this  class  of  trade,  than  did  the  grocery  keeper, 
notwithstanding  the  fact  that  he  was  high  in  society,  and 
was  positively  of  their  point  of  view.  Wyeth  passed 
much  of  his  spare  time  talking  with  the  grocery  man,  and 
came  to  find  him  a  most  obliging  man  in  every  way. 
When  he  was  informed  that  Wyeth  was  selling  a  book  by 
a  Negro,  he  instructed  him  to  bring  him  one  forthwith, 
and  which  he  was  glad  to  own,  and  read  It  through  at 
once. 

So  it  came  to  pass,  that  in  all  he  saw,  Wyeth  found 


"THIS  IS  MR.  WINSLOW,  MADAM!"       281 

many  honest  and  unassuming  people,  and  whose  interest 
in  the  race  did  not  end  with  a  few  sweet  words  and  a 
shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

Many  colored  men  were  actually  succeeding  in  the 
grocery  business  in  Effingham,  and  many  of  them  were 
referred  to  as  "chinse's,"  by  those  purporting  to  be 
leaders  in  society. 

Getting  back  to  Sidney  Wyeth  and  Legs,  who  were  up 
town  for  the  purpose  of  attending  a  picture  show.  Two 
of  the  three  shows  were  operated  by  the  same  company, 
and  the  playhouses  were  referred  to  as  capital  number 
one,  and  capital  number  two.  They  were  in  separate 
blocks.  Legs  and  Wyetii  had  been  to  capital  number  one, 
and  were  turning  in  the  direction  of  the  other,  when 
some  excitement  was  in  evidence  in  that  direction. 
They  joined  in  the  crush,  and  were  just  in  time  to  see  an 
altercation  between  a  man  and  a  woman,  a  nice  looking 
woman,  brown-skinned,  with  an  unusually  heavy  head  of 
hair.  The  man  appeared  to  have  called  the  woman,  and 
was  desirous  of  remonstrating  with  her  about  something 
to  which  she  took  exception.  She  turned  to  go,  and  it 
was  then  that,  like  a  flash,  he  drew  a  long,  keen-bladed 
knife  from  his  pocket,  and,  without  a  word,  drove  it  to 
the  hilt  in  her  breast.  She  walked  calmly,  perhaps  a 
half  dozen  steps,  and  than,  with  a  sudden  clutching  at 
the  air,  she  cried:  "Oh,  I'm  so  sick!"  Wyeth  saw  her 
eyes  for  one  moment,  and  the  next,  she  reeled  about,  and 
fell  dead  at  the  feet  of  the  crowd. 

The  murderer  saw  her,  and  it  was  only  when  she  fell, 
that  he  appeared  to  take  any  notice  of  the  fact  that  he 
had  committed  murder.  He  now  turned  and  fled  up  the 
alley,  while  the  Negroes  about  him  fell  back. 

"There  goes  the  beast!"  cried  Legs,  pointing  him  out 
to  Wyeth,  and  the  next  moment  they  followed  in  close 
pursuit.  A  cry  from  the  crowd  went  up  as  they  dis 
appeared.  It  warned  them  that  they  would  be  dealt  with 
likewise,  but  they  heeded  it  not. 

They  ran  up  the  alley  that  opened  ahead  into  a  wide 
street.  The  murderer  led  them  at  considerable  distance, 
and,  as  they  hurried  after  him,  they  saw  his  head  turning 


282  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

from  left  to  right,  evidently  looking  for  some  opening 
in  which  to  escape.  But  their  pursuit  was  too  close. 
Arriving  at  the  end  of  the  alley,  he  halted  one  brief 
moment,  and  then  turned  south. 

This  street  fell  rapidly  a  block,  and  reached  a  level  in 
a  railroad  yard,  where  long  trains  of  cars  stood  silently 
in  the  pale  moonlight.  To  these  he  now  ran,  not  looking 
back  at  his  pursuers.  A  few  minutes  later,  he  had,  for  a 
time,  disappeared  from  view  behind  a  car.  But  deter 
mined,  with  their  blood  now  boiling,  the  two  flew  on 
after  him.  When  they  got  inside  the  yards,  they  caught 
a  glimpse  of  him  crawling  along  to  the  other  side  of  a 
line  of  cars,  to  which  was  hitched  an  engine. 

A  moment  later,  this  began  to  move,  and,  suddenly, 
while  they  were  yet  some  distance  away,  he  swung  aboard 
one  of  the  cars  and  stood  on  the  bumpers.  They  hurried 
forward,  and  caught  a  car  each,  a  few  cars  to  the  rear; 
while  the  speed  of  the  train  increased.  In  a  few  minutes 
it  was  flying,  and  they  were  hanging  dangerously  to  the 
side.  With  quick  intuition,  Wyeth  climbed  to  the  top  of 
the  train,  and  called  to  Legs  when  he  stood  over  him,  to 
do  likewise.  Hurriedly,  Legs  clambered  to  the  top.  As 
he  settled  panting  on  top  of  the  moving  train,  in  the  rear 
and  hurrying  forward,  the  light  of  a  brakeman  approached. 
They  darted  forward,  looking  carefully  between  the  cars, 
to  ascertain  which  contained  the  fugitive.  The  train 
now  hurried  around  a  bend  toward  the  outskirts  of  the 
town,  and,  as  it  did  so,  they  saw  the  creature  drop  sud 
denly  from  between  the  cars  and  roll  over  the  embank 
ment,  and  down  the  grade  which  was,  perhaps,  at  this 
point  twenty  odd  feet. 

The  train  was  tearing  along  now  at  a  speed  that  made 
it  positively  dangerous  to  alight.  Still,  the  light  of  the 
brakeman  was  only  a  few  cars  away,  and,  inasmuch  as 
they  would  most  likely  be  severely  dealt  with  if  found, 
they  were,  for  the  moment,  at  a  loss  what  to  do.  The 
fugitive  had  now  arisen,  and  was  running  again  to  safety. 
All  they  had  seen  before  the  electric  show  now  came 
back  to  them,  and,  without  regard  for  the  risk  they  were 
taking,  they  quickly  clambered  to  the  bottom  and  fell 


"THIS  IS  MR.  WINSLOW,  MADAM!"       283 

off  the  train,  just  as  a  curse  greeted  their  ears  from  the 
brakeman  above. 

A  moment  later,  the  roar  of  the  train  was  lost  in  the 
distance,  and  they  were  alone,  but,  fortunately,  unin 
jured.  The  fugitive  had,  apparently,  made  good  his 
escape.  Disgusted  and  disgruntled,  they  started  back 
down  the  track  in  the  direction  from  whence  they  had 
come.  They  had  gone,  it  seemed  perhaps  a  half  mile, 
when  suddenly  a  groan  came  to  their  ears.  They  stopped 
and  listened. 

From  near  where  a  few  stray  hedge  and  weeds  had 
grown  up  and  were  tangled  and  enmeshed,  they  caught 
the  outline  of  a  man,  stretched  apparently  helpless  therein. 
They  hurried  forward,  Legs  in  the  lead.  As  they  did  so, 
he  sighed  perceptibly.  Legs  had  now  reached  the  man, 
and  was  in  the  act  of  bending  over  him,  when  Wyeth 
grabbed  him  from  the  rear  and  jerked  him  quickly  back; 
but  he  was  in  time  to  save  him  from  the  other,  who  had, 
like  a  flash,  sprung  up  and  lunged  forward  with  upraised 
knife. 

Having  missed,  the  murderer  tumbled  forward  on  his 
face,  and  bit  the  cinders,  while  Legs  raised  himself  off 
Wyeth,  who  had  been  pushed  backward  and  down  by  the 
sudden  collision.  The  other  had  gained  his  feet,  how 
ever,  before  they  got  their  wits  together,  and  with  a  mad 
curse  he  tore  down  the  tracks.  As  Wyeth  raised  him 
self,  his  fingers  encountered  a  piece  of  cinder,  heavy  with 
iron.  Unconsciously,  his  fingers  encircled  it,  and  when 
they  again  started  in  pursuit,  he  grasped  it. 

"We'll  kill  that  beast  as  he  killed  that  woman,"  cried 
Legs,  panting  dreadfully,  but  more  determined  now  than 
ever.  With  a  clear  track,  and  nothing  to  obstruct  the 
speed,  it  was  now  evidently  only  a  question  of  minutes 
until  they  must  surely  overcome  the  other  who  was 
shorter,  and  whose  speed  had  become  noticeably  slower. 
Legs  had  got  within  a  few  feet  of  him,  when  suddenly 
he  stopped  short  and  whirled  about.  Too  late!  Legs 
seemed  doomed  to  meet  the  point  of  the  upraised  knife 
that  glistened  in  the  moonlight.  Wyeth  at  that  moment 
saw  the  danger  of  his  companion,  and,  with  a  cry,  he 


284  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

hurled  the  cinder  full  at  the  crouching  fugitive.  It  went 
straight,  and  took  the  beast  full  in  the  face.  With  a  cry, 
the  other  fell  backward  across  the  track. 

Legs  tumbled  over  his  prostrate  form,  while,  at  that 
moment,  from  down  the  track  came  the  sound  of  an 
approaching  train.  Both  now  looked  up,  and  it  was  only 
then  they  were  aware  that  it  was  so  near.  They  were 
blinded  by  the  light,  but  with  a  cry  they  sprang  free,  as 
the  light  fell  full  upon  the  face  of  the  fugitive,  who  at 
that  moment  came  to  his  senses.  He  staggered  forward, 
and  then  with  a  cry  that  rang  above  the  roar  of  the 
train,  he  stumbled  forward,  but  in  rising,  one  of  his  feet 
had  caught  in  a  frog  and  held  him  fast.  A  screwing  of 
brakes  could  be  heard,  but  in  a  moment  the  heavy  engine 
crushed  over  his  writhing  body,  and  mangled  him  until, 
when  he  was  taken  from  beneath  it,  he  could  not  be 
recognized. 

Legs  and  Wyeth  were  present  the  next  morning  at  the 
inquest.  There  was  no  visible  excitement  over  the  death 
of  either.  A  small  paragraph  at  the  bottom  of  the  back 
page  of  the  morning  paper  reported  the  death,  by  stabbing, 
of  a  Negro  woman;  while  a  still  smaller  one  made  notice 
of  the  death,  in  an  unusual  manner,  of  the  murderer. 

And  so  it  was  in  Effingham.  If  one  desired  notoriety 
he  had  to  do  other  than  kill  a  Negro,  or  be  killed  by  one. 
For  such  was  soon  forgotten  among  other  and  more  un 
usual  sensations. 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

"Thou  Shalt  Not  Steal!" 

During  Wyeth's  canvass  among  his  people,  he  had 
become  accustomed  to  regard  men  who  indulged  ex 
cessively  in  drinking,  as  a  problematical  feature.  And 
when  that  same  man  gambled,  in  addition,  and  failed  to 
keep  his  word  or  oath,  he  was  not  in  the  least  surprised. 
And,  moreover,  when  he  became  acquainted  with  a  person 
who  loved  liquor,  gambled  likewise,  and  who  did  not 
struggle  to  secure  a  job,  but  was  content  to  walk  about 
in  perfect  peace,  without  any  effort  in  that  direction,  he 
was  not  surprised  if  that  person  stole,  in  addition. 

The  people  he  stopped  with  were,  in  a  measure,  secre 
tive.  That  is,  they  did  not  always  take  the  trouble  to 
state  where  they  purchased  all  they  had  about  the 
house.  He  took  meals  with  them  occasionally,  and  saw 
them  eating  every  day;  and,  although  chicken  was  very 
high,  exceedingly  high  in  Effingham,  they  had  it  every 
day. 

The  druggist,  whose  store  was  a  block  distant,  had 
inquired  of  them,  and  made  known  the  fact  that  Moore 
was  indebted  to  him  two  fifty,  but  Wyeth  paid  little  atten 
tion  to  this,  since,  during  the  warm  afternoons,  under  the 
cool  of  the  electric  fan,  he  indulged  in  such  reminiscences, 
and  Wyeth  knew  almost  everybody  who  owed  the  drug 
gist  anything,  including  Miss  Palmer. 

Two  robberies  had  occurred  in  less  than  two  weeks  at 
the  place,  and  both  were  shrouded  in  mystery.  The  first 
had  been  explained  away  very  reasonably.  A  window 
that  was  almost  hid  by  vines  had  been  left  open,  and 
through  this,  a  "nigga,"  as  they  put  it,  had  made  his 
entrance  and  gotten  away,  carrying  with  him  a  suit  of 
clothes  belonging  to  one  of  the  roomers,  who  kept  him 
self  pretty  well  soaked  with  liquor;  this  roomer  hap- 

286 


286  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

pened  to  be  employed  at  a  wholesale  liquor  house,  and 
was,  therefore,  able  to  drink  with  economy.  Sam  was 
his  name,  but  he  was  not,  however,  the  one  who  owned 
the  L.  &  N.  R.  R.  But  Sam  was  an  easy  go-lucky  and 
didn't  care  whether  school  kept  or  not;  and,  likewise, 
didn't  make  a  big  noise  if  something  did  crawl  in  through 
the  window,  and  steal  a  new  thirty-five  dollar  suit. 

As  was  stated,  it  was  explained,  John  Moore  lost  an 
old  derby  the  same  time-;— at  least,  this  was  how  he 
reported  it.  The  green  stain  upon  the  window-sill,  from 
the  vines  his  knees  crushed,  was  further  evidence  of  the 
ingress  and  the  egress.  Considerable  indignation  was 
shown  by  Moore,  and  a  great  many  words  were  em 
ployed  over  the  affair;  but,  in  due  time  it  had  died 
away  and  was  forgotten,  when  the  second  came  to  pass. 

The  victim  this  time  happened  to  be  a  gloomy  and 
forlorn  creature,  who  could  well  boast  that  no  miscegena 
tion  had  prostituted  his  ancestors,  and  whose  teeth,  in 
the  night,  flashed  like  a  diamond  necklace.  Griffin  was 
his  name,  and  he  did  not  shoot  craps,  or  fight,  or  get 
drunk,  and  Wyeth  didn't  think  he  drank,  until  he  saw 
the  Mis'  go  to  make  his  bed  one  day,  and,  in  turning 
back  the  pillow,  revealed  a  half  pint  of  John. 

Griffin  reported  that  it  was  employed  as  a  medicine, 
and  Wyeth  allowed  it  to  go  at  that,  but  indulged  a  smile 
upon  Griffin  that  meant  more.  Wyeth  had  a  way  of 
joking  with  the  eyes  that  kept  him  out  of  difficulties,  but 
convicted  and  judged  those  near  him,  and  they  could 
only  laugh  and  look  guilty. 

One  of  the  other  good  things  we  know  of  Griffin,  is 
that  he  read  the  Bible,  and  nothing  else,  and  said  so; 
moreover,  he  deplored  the  reading  of  anything  else, 
declaring  it  to  be  contrary  to  the  laws  of  God.  Griffin 
rarely  said  Jesus,  and  never  "Jaysus."  And — yes,  he 
was  a  Sunday  school  teacher,  and  went  to  services  to  a 
church  that  was  at  the  other  side  of  town;  he  shouted 
when  the  preacher  delivered  a  soul-stirring  sermon,  and 
expected  to  go  to  Heaven  when  he  died.  Only  one  thing 
did  Griffin  indulge  in,  though  he  was  careful  to  keep  that 
to  himself,  and  that  was  woman — but  we  are  a  long  way 


"THOU  SHALT  NOT  STEAL"  287 

from  our  story.  And  still,  we  cannot  leave  it,  this  part 
of  it,  until  we  make  known  that  she  was  a  "high  yellow" 
which  is  perhaps  unnecessary  to  state,  for  when  the  color 
is  like  Griffins',  they  scorn  all  other  kind. 

The  robber  this  time  employed  a  more  machination 
method,  and  he  was  a  very  congenial  robber  also.  Out 
of  consideration  for  Griffin's  regular  attendance  at 
church,  he  left  an  old  greasy  suit  that,  due  to  the  great 
amount  of  the  foreign  matter  it  contained,  was  likely  to 
last  him  until  finances  would  enable  him  to  restock  for 
the  benefit  of  the  robber. 

This  robbery  occurred  one  night  when  he  was  away, 
and  did  not  return  until  the  following  morning,  which 
was  in  itself  singular,  for  Griffin  was  rarely  away.  It 
was,  like  the  other,  mysterious.  Griffin  was  a  miner, 
and  since  he  would  not — so  'twas  said — pay  twenty-five 
cents  a  week  for  warm  water  and  a  towel  to  clean  himself 
at  the  mines,  he  preferred  to  sleep  in  the  kitchen,  because 
he  was  unfit  to  occupy  any  other  portion  of  the  house, 
unless  it  was  the  attic.  And  since  there  was  none  to  this 
house,  we  leave  him  in  the  kitchen,  where  he  slept  in  a 
dirty,  but  warm  bed,  and  kept  his  clothes — he  had  some 
pride — in  the  strongest  trunk  Wyeth  thought  he  had 
ever  seen.  On  the  outside,  he  kept  it  locked  with  the 
strongest  Yale  spring.  With  all  the  high-priced  adver 
tising  done  in  regard  to  the  safety  of  such  locks,  this 
robber  didn't  seem  to  give  a  hang,  but,  with  a  steel 
poker,  he  had  twisted  and  twisted,  until  Mr.  Yale  had 
resigned  himself  to  the  inevitable,  and  permitted  ingress. 
Within  were  four  nice,  clean  suits,  awaiting  Griffin's 
subtle  occasions. 

Legs,  Wyeth  and  Glenview,  who  were  very  agreeable 
roomers,  didn't  hear  of  it  until  the  second  morning. 
And  they  might  not  have  known  then,  if  it  had  not 
happened  that  they  were  together  in  the  adjoining  room, 
and  overheard  Griffin  crying  over  the  loss.  That  hap 
pened  to  be  Friday.  Legs  had  become  something  of  a 
hero,  with  his  successful  running  down  of  the  murderer, 
and  now  played,  very  successfully,  the  part  of  a  man. 
Legs  did  not  positively  condone  the  light  fingered  method. 


288  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

When  they  had  been  led,  by  their  curiosity,  to  investigate, 
and  had  returned  to  the  room,  he  remarked: 

"It  beats  Hell  the  way  this  place  continues  to  be 
robbed!" 

"It  is  indeed  singular,"  commented  Glen  view,  whose 
English  was  always  the  most  careful.  And  he  never 
swore. 

"Yes,"  said  Legs  again,  "it  is  strange.  So  strange 
that  I'm  getting  suspicious,"  and  he  closed  an  eye 
meaningly.  "There's  a  man  in  the  house  who  has  not 
worked  this  summer.  ...  He  cannot  seem  to  get  the 
kind  of  work  he  follows,  true;  but  the  fact  to  be  con 
sidered,  is  that  he  has  not  worked  this  summer.  He 
likes  to  gamble,  and  is  particularly  fond  of  liquah.  ..." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  he  closed  that  eye  again,  and 
looked  across  at  Glenview.  Glenview  closed  an  eye  and 
looked  at  Wyeth.  Wyeth  held  his  open,  but  did  some 
rapid  thinking.  He  now  recalled  that,  upon  entering, 
the  robber  had  cut  the  screen,  it  was  shown  to  them; 
but  now  as  he  remembered  it,  the  ends  of  the  wires  where 
the  screen  had  been  cut  pointed  outward.  .  .  .  Also,  it  was 
reported  to  have  been  cut  with  a  hatchet;  and  the 
hatchet  was  on  the  ground  near  the  window,  which  was 
logical.  ...  It  was  very  strange  indeed,  this  robbery.  -  -  - 
Legs  was  speaking  again: 

"This  man  who  has  been  out  of  work  all  summer,  at 
least  has  not  worked  all  summer,  and  who  loves  liquah 
better  than  I  do,  and  who  could  shoot  craps  forever  and 
be  happy,  sleeps  within  four  feet  of  that  trunk.  The 
only  thing  between  him  and  the  trunk  is  a  door  that  has 
not  been  closed  this  summer.  .  .  .  And  who,  moreover,  if 
you  will  recall,"  he  closed  that  eye  again  and  held  it  so  a 
second,  "awakens  always  when  we  enter  late  at  night, 
and  inquires,  'who  goes  there/  And  this  man  slept 
through  all  this  with  the  trunk  almost  against  his  head,  and 
didn't  hear  it  being  opened."  He  paused  again  and  closed 
that  eye,  it  was  the  right;  Glenview  closed  his  left, 
Wyeth  closed  his  too.  From  the  other  room  came  sighs, 
and  a  restless  turning  on  the  bed  where  some  one  lay. 
On  the  front  porch,  John  Moore  sat  with  the  Bible  open 
before  him. 


"THOU  SHALT  NOT  STEAL"  289 

"Have  you  observed, "  said  Glen  view,  in  his  Englishy 
way,  "that  the  ones  who  have  been  robbed,  are  those 
most  likely  to  take  his  story  about  it,  and  are  not  capable 
of  investigating  on  their  own  initiative?"  Three  eyes 
closed  simultaneously.  "For  instance,"  he  resumed, 
"there's  Sam,  always  full  you  know;  when  I  inquired 
what  he  had  done  about  it,  he  replied  that  he  had  inquired 
of  one  pawnbroker — and  you  know  there  are  perhaps  a 
hundred  in  this  town — if  any  one  had  offered  a  suit  as 
security  for  a  loan  that  fit  that  description.  Think  of  it! 
And  now  here  comes  the  instance  of  this  old  creature  we 
hear  sighing  in  the  kitchen;  and  who  reads  nothing  but 
the  Bible,  and  goes  to  church  on  Sunday.  He  hasn't 
sense  enough,  and  nerve,  he  doesn't  know;  he  has  per 
haps  called  on  the  Lord  to  restore  those  things.  Why 
haven't  some  of  our  things  been  stolen?"  .  .  .  Again 
three  eyes  closed,  while  memories  became  the  order; 
the  memory  of  Wyeth's  conflict,  and  they  didn't  forget 
that  of  Legs.  "We  leave  them  laying  around,  and  none 
of  us  lock  our  trunks.  .  .  .  You,"  he  said,  seeing  Legs, 
"have  more  suits  than  any  of  us,  and  they  hang  on  the 
wall.  .  .  ." 

John  Moore  had  fallen  asleep  and  the  Bible  had  tumbled 
to  the  floor.  A  street  car  line  came  past  the  door,  and 
the  cars,  when  passing,  filled  the  house  with  noise.  One 
passed  at  this  moment,  and  he  was  suddenly  awakened. 
Looking  about  hastily  for  the  Bible  he  had  held,  he  saw 
it  on  the  floor  at  his  feet.  He  stooped  to  pick  it  up, 
and  as  he  did  so,  saw  that  it  was  open.  As  his  hand 
touched  it,  his  eyes  lit  upon  a  chapter,  whereupon  he 
straightened  up  quickly.  A  moment  later  he  picked  it 
up,  and  rising,  entered  the  house. 

The  words  of  the  chapter  that  had  disconcerted  him 
for  the  moment  were:  "Thou  Shalt  Not  Steal!" 


19 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN 

They  Turned  Her  Out  of  Church 

Saturday  night  of  that  week  was  a  beautiful  night,  and 
everybody  sought  the  open  air — no,  almost  everybody. 
There  were  a  few  that  didn't,  in  fact  they  sought  the 
closed  inside  for  a  purpose. 

Murphy  had  a  good  crowd,  for  it  was  pay  day,  and 
everything  was  "sliding"  along  0.  K.  Glen  view,  who 
had  purchased  a  new  novel  from  Wyeth,  who  bought 
them  and  sold  the  same  at  a  discount  when  he  had  read 
them,  was  there  too.  So  was  John  Moore,  he  was  always 
there.  Wyeth  was  below,  and  so  was  Legs,  for,  strange 
as  it  may  seem,  he  had  kept  his  pledge  thus  far.  He  was 
glad  of  it,  too,  which  is  ahead  of  our  story.  Easy. 

A  game  was  on,  a  big  game,  and  darkies  were  un- 
coated;  perspiration  flowed  freely.  Wyeth  retired  about 
twelve,  or  it  might  have  been  earlier — it  makes  little 
difference.  The  game  was  on,  and  so  was  somebody  else. 
Wyeth  felt  himself  being  shook,  but  could  not  seem  to 
awaken  at  once.  Words  came  to  his  ears,  and  it  was  the 
voice  of  Legs  that  spoke: 

"Get  up,"  it  said,  in  subdued  excitement.  "Get  up, 
you  fool." 

"Go  to  the  devil!  Are  you  crazy?  Don't  awaken  me. 
I'm  tired  and  want  to  rest,"  he  answered  unconsciously. 

"I  said,  arise — at  once.    Somethin'  doin'." 

"Will  you  go  to  the  devil,  or  shall  I  hit  you  in  the  ear 
and  dispatch  you  forthwith!  I  want  to  rest,  you  pair  of 
Legs." 

Listen!   Listen!   Hear  them,  Books!" 

Books  heard  something,  but  he  didn't  know  what  it 
was;  moreover,  he  didn't  care— in  fact,  he  didn't  want 
to  hear.  He  wanted  to  sleep.  It  was  a  fine  night  for 

290 


THEY  TURNED  HER  OUT  OF  CHURCH  291 

sleeping,  too.  The  soft  air  floated  in  through  the  window 
at  his  head,  and  the  vines  and  garden  the  Mis'  raised, 
and  which  grew  within  a  few  feet  of  him,  perfumed  it 
with  nature's  own.  Why  should  he  be  concerned  about 
what  went  on  up  in  Murphy's  den.  He  kicked  at  Legs, 
when  he  repeated. 

Legs  went  into  the  other  room,  but  the  noise  from 
above  persisted. 

"Look  out  there,  nigger!"  it  said.  "Don't  start 
nothing,  don't  start  nothing!  Get  around  there,  you, 
beside  that  other  nigger!  Now,  here,  you,  ink,  put  these 
cuffs  on  the  two  niggers  against  the  wall.  Right  around 
the  wrists,  you  fool.  I've  put  them  on  you  often  enough 
for  you  to  know  that  they  don't  go  on  the  shoulders. 
And  don't  be  so  damn  nervous.  You  shiver  around 
there  as  though  it  was  the  first  time  you've  been  arrested. 
Are  you  done?  Well,  stand  over  in  that  row  beside  them 
other  niggers!  Don't  think  because  I  know  you  that  you 
c'n  ease  out  that  window.  And  don't  figure  I'm  going 
to  play  any  pets!  Heah!  Heah!  You  little  black  rat! 
You,  I  say,  with  the  pop  peepers!  If  you  try  any  monkey 
foolishness,  I'll  put'm  out,  I'll  put'm  out!  Hear  that 
nigger,  hear  that!  I'll  shoot  you  nigger,  I'll  shoot  you!" 

"Hear'm  Books,  hear'm!  It's  the  police.  They're 
upstairs.  They're  making  a  raid.  Hear'm  Books!" 
came  Leg's  voice,  as  he  came  back  to  where  Wyeth  lay. 
Sidney  had  awakened  now.  Sitting  up  in  bed,  he  listened 
to  the  voices  that  came  down  from  upstairs.  It  was  still 
a  little  vague,  but  Legs  spoke  again: 

"They  are  coming  down  now."  And  so  they  were. 
A  noise  of  many  feet  tramping  about,  began  to  file  down 
ward  on  the  rickety  steps. 

"Wait,  Frank,"  came  a  voice.  "Let  me  out  on  the 
front,  so  I  can  hold  a  gun  on  these  niggers.  Now  come 
ahead.  Now,  niggers,  the  first  one  that  makes  a  break, 
remember,  out  goes  his  light,  bingo!" 

"Mary,  oh,  Mary,  bring  me  my  coat  and  hat."  Wyeth 
was  dressed  now  and  peeping  out  the  window.  Yes,  it 
was  John  Moore,  and  he  wanted  his  coat  and  hat.  He 
was  going  away,  on  a  journey.  The  Mis',  very  much 


292  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

frightened,  hurried  forward,  and  held  them  out  to  him. 
He  placed  the  hat  on  his  head,  and  took  the  coat  on  his 
arm.  He  wore  cuffs,  so  that  made  a  difference. 

The  Mis'  fell  into  the  room  a  moment  later,  and  gave 
up  to  silent  anguish.  It  was  not  the  first  time  she  had 
witnessed  a  raid.  Sometimes  Wyeth  felt  sorry  for  her. 
For,  once  upon  a  time  she  had  been  a  good  woman,  she 
was  yet  when  she  could  be.  At  least  she  was  always 
kind;  but  when  liquor  was  voted  out  of  the  state  some 
years  before,  he,  her  husband  then,  took  up  the  sale  of 
it,  contrary  to  the  law.  He  had  been  caught  once,  and 
then  twice.  He  had  then  been  caught  the  third  time. 
The  third  time  is  when  you  go  to  the  mines.  You  may 
never  return  from  these  places,  so  'tis  said.  "They  kill 
you  out  there,"  is  what  John  Moore  had  told  him  once, 
grimly.  "Yes,  they  kill  you  out  there.  It's  Hell!" 

They  killed  the  Mis's  husband.  And  she  had  a  son, 
and  he  sold  liquor  too.  He  was  a  dissipated  youth.  The 
mines  had  him  six  months.  They  gave  him  back  to  her. 
T.  B.  He  died.  And  at  this  time  she  mourned  his  loss. 
She  was  now  alone  in  the  world.  She  had,  at  first,  made 
an  honest  living,  and  was  a  member  of  the  A.  M.  E. 
church.  She  became  acquainted  with  John  Moore. 
Well,  they  turned  her  out  of  church  some  time  after 
ward.  They  would  have  done  so  sooner,  but  she  was 
pitied,  and  black  people  have  sympathy — even  for  crim 
inals.  The  Mis'  had  lost  her  husband,  and  then  her  son 
and — but  they  turned  her  out  of  church.  That's  bad. 
Oh,  it's  awful  bad  to  be  turned  out  of  church.  Black 
faces,  crooked  often,  regard  one  with  dark  suspicion  when 
he  is  turned  out  of  church,  especially  if  a  woman. 

And  now  they  had  him.  The  other,  her  consort,  for 
such  he  was,  because  you  see,  be  merciful,  she  was  a 
human  being.  .  .  .  And  all  human  beings  cry  out  for  love, 
yes,  love.  .  .  . 

"Take  along  his  Bible,  Mis',"  grinned  Legs.  And 
then  he  looked  at  her.  .  .  .  Yes,  Legs  knew  the  story 
too.  ...  He  was  sorry,  terribly  sorry.  They  were  all 
sorry  for  the  Mis'. 

Legs  and  Wyeth  now  stood  on  the  outside.  It  was 
safe  now.  They  watched  the  arrangement. 


THEY  TURNED  HER  OUT  OF  CHURCH  293 

Four  abreast  they  now  stood  lined  in  four  rows.  They 
were  all  handcuffed  together.  John  Moore  was  there, 
bringing  up  the  rear.  Murphy  was,  too.  Being  the  man 
of  the  house,  he  was  honored  with  a  place  at  the  front. 
And  behind  these  sixteen  men,  walked  his  honor,  the 
police.  And  so  very  insignificant  they  were,  apparently. 
Yet,  they  were  the  law!  And  that  means  more  than  our 
pen  can  describe  here. 

Black  people  claim  to  fear  God  and  no  other.  They 
don't.  The  most  of  them  do  not  understand  it  in  a 
larger  sense.  No.  But,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that, 
in  Dixie  they  are  forever  breaking  it,  they  do  fear  the 
law — and  the  white  man. 

They  filed  now,  a  row  at  a  time,  and  a  few  feet  apart, 
across  the  street.  Under  the  flaring  electric  street  lamp 
they  passed,  some  bareheaded,  but  all  downcast,  dis 
couraged  and  remorseful.  Oh,  this  was  the  law.  The 
law  of  Effingham  declared:  "Thou  must  not  game!" 
In  the  middle  of  the  street  they  walked,  and  a  few  minutes 
later,  they  passed  under  the  light  of  the  lamp  at  the  next 
intersection,  and  disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the 
station.  And  it  was  only  then,  Wyeth  recalled,  that 
among  them  he  had  not  observed  Glenview.  He  was 
not  there,  he  was  positive;  and  yet  he  was  at  the  game. 
Where  was  he?  Where  did  he  go?" 

He  turned  his  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  rear,  and  at 
that  moment  Glenview  walked  into  view. 

"You!"  cried  many  voices,  for  a  curious  crowd  of 
crooks  had  gathered.  Good  people  had  long  since  retired. 

"Well?"  he  smiled. 

"Well  .  .  ." 

"I'm  here.  Not  therel"  And  his  eyes  went  in  the 
direction  of  the  others,  who  were  now  passing  under 
another  light,  into  a  bigger  light. 

"Well?" 

"I  saw  they  were  nothing  but  a  pair  of  snots." 

"Well?" 

"The  window  was  open." 

"The  window?" 

"And  the  outside  air  was  very  inviting.  Much  more 
than  that  other." 


294  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"Oh  .  .  ."  It  was  becoming  clear  to  all  now.  The 
Mis'  looked  disappointed.  Sometimes  she  had  not  liked 
Glenview.  ...  He  winked  and  went  to  the  front  of  the 
house. 

"Well,"  sighed  the  Mis7,  resignedly.  "They  certainly 
got  a  bunch  of  them,"  and  then  laughed,  a  laugh  that 
Wyeth  had  heard  before  and  knew.  Not  a  cheerful 
laugh,  but  a  dry,  hard  laugh.  One  that  was  possible 
after  years  of  bitterness. 

By  this  time,  a  score  or  more  Negroes,  denizens  of  the 
night,  had  gathered  and  were  exchanging  opinions,  offer 
ing  theories,  and  executing  objections. 

"Some  low  down  nigga  done  turned'm  up."  This  was 
what  a  large  Negress,  with  imposing  hips,  was  saying. 
She  sold  liquor  across  the  way,  and  conducted  a  house 
for  any  kind  of  purpose. 

"Some  doity  HT  stool  pigeon,"  added  another,  who 
was  more  doubtful  still.  Wyeth  regarded  them  a  moment 
in  disgust.  They  were  dressed  as  they  were  when  they 
arose  that  morning  or  that  afternoon,  or  whenever  it  was, 
which  was  not  in  the  last  hour  or  two. 

It  was  Glenview  who  detailed  the  raid  now  at  some 
length.  "A  big  Negro  was  shooting  for  three  dollars.  A 
little  guy,  who  appeared  to  be  very  drunk,  kept  making 
a  fuss,  finally  asking  to  be  let  out.  He  went,  and  when 
Murphy  opened  the  street  door  for  that  purpose,  well,  in 
walked  the  bulls — no,  the  little  snots." 

"I'm  going  upstairs  to  see  how  it  looks  after  the 
scramble,"  said  he,  and  a  moment  later  his  feet  were 
heard  in  that  direction.  He  had  no  sooner  hit  the  landing, 
than  from  above  came  a  dreadful  noise.  A  crashing  of 
window  panes  indicated  that  someone  was  trying  to  get 
out  of  the  window.  A  table  turned  over  with  consider 
able  objections,  judging  from  the  noise  it  made.  The 
whatever-it-was  appeared  to  be  coming  toward  the  stair 
in  post  haste  now.  Chairs  were  cast  aside,  without  care 
of  how  they  might  land,  and  then  it  appeared  on  the 
landing.  A  moment  later  it  came  down,  much  a  tumble, 
and  not  in  the  usual  way.  Hands  and  legs  and  feet 
seemed  altogether,  as  they  did  many  stunts  on  the  way 


THEY  TURNED  HER  OUT  OF  CHURCH  295 

down.  Eyes  were  opened  wide,  while  breaths  were  held, 
as  the  spectacle  was  observed  closely.  And  then  it  landed. 
One  moment  it  lingered,  and  made  a  funny  picture  for 
the  many  eyes.  Then  it  became  erect — and  behold! 
It  was  a  man. 

But  he  hadn't  taken  the  time  to  dress  entirely.  He 
had,  upon  coming  down,  or  deciding  to  do  so,  donned 
only  a  coat;  while  his  large,  loose  knee  lengths  stood  out 
conspicuously  from  the  small  legs,  that  reminded  one  of 
pipe  stems,  smoked  ones — coming  out  of  huge  corn  cobs. 

It  came  about  when  Glenview  ascended  the  stair,  and 
met  it  in  the  act  of  looking  about  to  ascertain  whether 
the  coast  was  clear. 

For  a  time  that  may  have  been  a  second,  possibly  more, 
he  stood  hesitant.  Wild  of  eye  and  trembling  in  the  legs, 
but  conspicuous  to  a  humorous  degree,  he  soon  came  to 
appreciate  the  spectacle  he  made,  and  forthwith  betook 
himself  hurriedly  back  up  the  steps;  but,  alas!  Not 
many  had  he  ascended  when  he  made  a  miss,  and,  with 
a  smothered,  embarrassed  cry,  he  fell,  and  the  next 
moment  came  back. 

While  all  this  performing  was  going  on,  he  was  not 
aware  that  the  officers  had  long  since  departed.  And 
when  he  again  landed  at  the  feet  of  his  onlookers,  who 
were  now  given  over  to  a  fit  of  snickers,  he  cried  in  a  sub 
dued,  but  intensely  excited  voice:  "Don't  let  them  get 
me!  Don't  let  them  get  me!"  He  was  wild,  as  he  hesi 
tated  before  attempting  to  return.  And  in  the  meantime, 
he  whined  like  a  poor  thing,  which  made  the  Negroes 
who  stood  about,  give  up  to  loud  laughing. 

At  last,  he  was  calmed  to  a  point  where  he  took  him 
self  hurriedly  up  the  stairs,  and  disappeared.  And  then 
there  was  another  commotion!  Apparently  the  house 
was  coming  down,  from  the  scrambling,  and  the  way 
chairs,  and  beds,  and  tables — and  everything  seemed  to 
be  turning  over. 

"Say,  say!"  came  the  voice  of  Glenview.  "The 
officers  have  disappeared  a  half  hour  ago.  Be  quiet. 
Those  are  not  officers  below.  They  are  curiosities."  But 
it  was  some  time  before  he  was  able  to  communicate  this 


296  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

fact  to  a  point  that  brought  quiet.  When  he  presently 
emerged,  the  onlookers  saw  not  two,  Glenview  and  the 
other,  but  five.  They  slipped  down  the  steps  like  ghosts, 
looked  wildly  about  for  one  brief  second,  and  then 
melted  into  the  night  like  vampires. 

As  they  floated  away,  some  one  recognized  one  and 
called  him  out  by  name,  and  these  words  came  back  to 
those  who  listened: 

"Hush  calling  my  name,  you  fool!" 

The  plate  at  the  head  of  the  table  was  not  turned  that 
morning.  The  Mis',  notwithstanding  the  words  she 
uttered  when  the  raid  had  been  made:  "I'm  glad  of  it! 
It'll  stop  that  gambling,  and  I  hope,  Murphy's  whiskey 
selling,"  she  was,  nevertheless,  sad-eyed,  and  all  upset. 
All  that  day  she  so  remained,  grew  worse,  if  anything. 

"Don't  worry,  Mis',"  conforted  Glenview  kindly.  "As 
soon  as  some  word,  comes  from  them,  I'll  hustle  about 
and  secure  bail."  But  it  was  late  in  the  morning  before 
any  word  came,  and  then,  alas!  It  was  a  surprise. 

There  is  a  law  in  regard  to  gaming  in  Effingham,  which 
makes  the  penalty  heavier  if  caught  gaming  during  the 
week;  whereas,  it  is  lighter  for  Sunday.  Therefore, 
being  well  aware  of  the  fact,  no  serious  anticipation  was 
held  as  to  how  the  gamesters  would  be  dealt  with,  since 
they  had  been  caught  after  midnight  Saturday  night. 
In  fact,  when  the  excitement  attendant  with  the  raid  had 
passed,  those  directly  interested,  looked  hourly  for  those 
who  were  caught,  to  be  released. 

"  What'll  it  cost  them  under  this  law?"  inquired  Wyeth 
of  Glenview,  who  appeared  to  be  fairly  well  informed 
regarding  the  matter. 

"Oh,  not  much,"  he  replied.  "Perhaps  five  or  six 
dollars.  You  see,"  he  explained,  "the  city  considers 
gambling  through  the  week  as  a  business  indulged  in  by 
professionals;  whereas  Sunday,  they  construe  that  they 
may  be  workmen  engaged  in  a  pastime." 

Wyeth  understood,  of  course,  but  it  appeared  singular 
at  first. 

"They  will  be  taken  to  the  city  lock-up,"  Glenview 
resumed,  "and  if  collateral  to  the  amount  of  twenty-five 


THEY  TURNED  HER  OUT  OF  CHURCH  297 

dollars  be  offered  and  approved,  they  will  be  allowed 
to  return,  and  when  they  appear  tomorrow  morning,  they 
will  be  fined  five  dollars  and  cost.  If  they  were  caught 
during  the  week,  it  would  be  ten  and  cost,  and  possibly 
more,  depending." 

It  was  at  the  end  df  this  conversation  that  they  got 
their  surprise. 

Murphy  came  in.  He  seemed  tired  and  worn;  he  was 
a  picture,  in  fact,  of  the  result  of  such  a  raid.  He  sat 
himself  down  with  a  sigh  that  was  not  altogether  one  of 
relief.  All  waited,  with  drawn  breath. 

"That's  the  worst  place  I  have  seen  the  inside  of,"  he 
said,  and  shook  his  head  in  emphasis. 

"Where  did  the  wagon  pick  you  fellows  up?"  inquired 
Glenview.  "I  don't  recall  hearing  any." 

"No  wagon  picked  us  up.  We  walked  all  the  way. 
They  didn't  carry  us  to  the  city  pen,  but  to  the  county 
jail." 

"What!"  cried  the  Mis',  while  Glenview  appeared  to 
regard  it  with  incredulity. 

And  then  all  were  silent,  with  a  cold  feeling  creeping 
through  their  veins,  as  the  grim  reality  came  upon  them. 
It  would  now  be  thirty-seven  fifty,  and  not  five  dollars,  for 
the  county  made  no  exception  for  Sunday 

All  the  day  through,  John  Moore  raised  from  his  hard 
seat,  and  gazed  out  through  the  heavy  bars  that  penned 
him  in.  "Will  they  never  come,  will  they  never  come!" 
he  cried  to  himself,  but  only  the  heat  and  multitudes  of 
Negroes  greeted  his  gaze,  as  it  eagerly  sought  the  door 
to  freedom. 

And  all  day  Glenview  walked  from  one  bondman  to 
another. 

"No,"  said  the  wealthiest  Negro  doctor,  who  had 
bailed  out  many.  "I've  quit  going  anybody's  bond.  I 
don't  think,  from  the  experience  I  have  had,  that  I 
would  be  justified  in  going  my  brother's  hereafter."  He 
had  a  few  to  jump  them,  and  it  cost  him  a  pretty  penny, 
he  afterwards  told  Wyeth,  to  get  them  back. 

"He's  worthless,"  said  the  druggist,  apparently  amused, 
at  least  satisfied  with  his  solution  for  the  present.  "He 


298  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

owes  me  two  fifty  for  medicine  I  sold  him,  and  trusted 
to  my  sorrow.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  I  will  do."  He  chang 
ed  his  tone  to  one  of  thought,  then  went  on.  "Now 
you  tell  the  Mis'  if  she  will  come  down  here  and  give 
me  seven  fifty,  five  of  this  is  going  the  bond  that'll  put 
the  thief  on  the  street,  because  it  is  he  who  has  been 
doing  that  stealing  up  there,  and  all  of  you  don't  seem 
to  know  it,  and  the  remainder,  two  fifty,  is  what  he  owes 
me."  Tell  her  to  bring  it  to  me  in  cash,  understand, 
the  long  green,  and  out  he  comes,  to  go  back  soon  where 
he  ought  to  be,  for  he  has  honestly  no  right  to  be  free." 

Of  course,  Mis'  never  had  such  an  amount,  so  Moore, 
insofar  as  this  source  was  concerned,  was  doomed  to  stay 
in  the  hot  place  for  some  time.  Glenview  went  to  another. 

"That  nigga!  Hell!  Why  I  wouldn't  go  his  bond  to 
stay  in  Heaven,  he  is  so  crooked  and  undependable." 

That  was  the  end  of  it  for  that  day,  and  the  night 
settled  down. 

It  would  cost  ten  dollars  cash  to  secure  release  through 
professional  bondsmen;  and,  inasmuch  as  John  had 
not  the  tenth  part  of  that,  he  reposed  for  several  days 
in  his  new  place  of  abode,  and  became  very  dirty  and 
bedraggled  in  the  meantime.  Always  so  clean  and  tidy- 
thus  the  Mis'  kept  him,  that  he  was  hardly  recognizable, 
when  a  few  days  afterward,  he  returned.  It  was  Murphy 
who  secured  bond,  and  Wyeth  came  upon  him  in  some 
surprise  that  evening.  He  sat  quietly  on  the  porch  with 
the  Bible  in  his  hand,  so,  greeting  him,  Wyeth  asked  how 
he  "liked"  it.  The  other  said: 

"Whew!  The  worse  place  I  was  ever  in."  He  had 
been  in  them  before,  but  not  this  one;  but  he  did  not, 
of  course,  deem  it  necessary  to  make  this  mention.  It 
had  been  made  by  others.  "Two  hundred  nigga's  in  the 
room  I  was  in,  and  God  knows  how  many  more  else 
where.  And  they  were  one-armed  and  one-legged,  one- 
eyed  and  toothless,  earless  and  one-eared;  but  the  whole 
bunch,  every  one  of  them,  were  filthy.  And  the  place 
was  rotten!" 

Yet  more  than  five  hundred  Negroes,  most  of  them 
young  men,  preferred  the  place  to  freedom. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY 

"/  Love  Your  She  Said 

Miss  Annie  Palmer  had  about  despaired  of  winning 
Sidney  Wyeth,  and  by  this  time  was  not  nearly  so  con 
siderate  when  he  called,  as  she  had  been  some  weeks 
before.  And,  besides,  Wyeth  had  an  insistent  way  of 
seeing  things,  which  was  not  the  custom  of  her  friends. 
When  he  called,  sometimes,  instead  of  giving  up  to  the 
easier  things  in  life,  and  which  concerned  the  select  few, 
he  was  liable  to  bring  up  a  subject  concerning  the  future 
of  the  Negro  of  the  south,  as  he  is  today,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 
So  it  came  to  pass,  that  Miss  Palmer  was  only  good  at 
times;  and  at  those  times,  she  was  liable  to  be  good  by 
fits  and  starts,  and  then  she  "got  cranky."  Notwith 
standing  the  fact,  they  were  still  friends,  nothing  more, 
and,  as  Miss  Palmer  sometimes  sighed  to  herself,  "Will 
never  be  anything  more." 

"You  were,  I  thought,"  she  declared  one  day,  "the 
sweetest  kind  of  a  boy.  But  of  late  you  are  so  concerned 
about  Y.  M.  C.  A/s,  and  libraries,  and  schools,  and  the 
like,  for  our  people,  and  how  many  are  being  killed  and 
all  that,  that  I  am  sometimes  serious  in  my  belief  that 
you  are  losing  your  mind." 

"I  came  to  show  you  the  article  in  The  Herald,  by  the 
park  commissioner,  with  regard  to  the  establishing  of  a 
park  for  Negroes.  I  suppose  you  have  read  it?  I  am 
certainly  glad  to  know  that  you  have  white  people  in 
your  city,  who  are  showing  some  interest  in  the  civic 
welfare  of  our  race;  and  from  what  he  has  suggested, 
with  regard  to  this  park  for  our  people,  to  be  centrally 
located,  there  is  conclusive  evidence,  that  the  white 
people  are  coming  to  appreciate  that  the  evolution  of 
these  black  people  can  be  brought  about  otherwise  than 
in  the  chain  gang." 

299 


300  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"  Please  don't  today,  Mr.  Wyeth,  please  don't,"  she  beg 
ged.  '  'Promise  just  once  that  you  will  try  to  be,  if  it's  only 
for  a  minute,  as  you  were  when  I  became  acquainted 
with  you.  Let's  drop  this  matter  about  the  park  and  all 
that  today.  These  Negroes  here  would  do  nothing  with 
a  park  but  fight  in  it.  And  a  library,  they  don't  read; 
so  what's  the  use."  She  came  to  him,  and  before  he 
could  say  a  word  in  protest,  she  had  gotten  on  the  daven 
port,  and  beside  him  very  closely.  In  that  moment, 
Miss  Palmer  felt  that  she  wanted  to  hear  him  say  some 
thing  about  her. 

"Listen,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  was  full  of  feigned 
passion.  "Do  you  care  for  me?"  It  was  so  sudden  that 
ne  did  not  know  how  to  accept  it,  whether  as  a  joke  or 
serious.  He  had,  of  late,  been  backing  up  on  the  flirta 
tion.  However,  she  was  evidently  serious,  so,  with  a 
jolly  word,  he  talked  with  her  at  some  length  about 
nothing.  Presently  she  became  meditative.  She  spoke 
of  her  unhappy  life  with  a  sigh,  and  then  fell  to  accounts 
regarding  her  little  boy. 

"My  entire  hope  is  centered  in  him.  I  intend  to  make 
a  doctor  out  of  him,  and  to  do  that,  I  will  have  to  work 
hard  and  save  money  to  put  him  through  school  when 
he  is  grown  up,  and  you  see  what  that  will  call  for." 

He  was  a  lad  of  ten  years,  and  the  image  of  his  mother. 
The  future  of  the  American  Negro  was  bright  in  his  eyes; 
and  he  assisted  commerce  to  a  degree,  by  consuming  as 
much  coca  cola  as  he  could  buy,  with  as  many  nickels  as 
he  could  gather;  likewise,  peanuts,  cracker  jack  and 
candies. 

"He's  some  boy,"  glowed  Wyeth,  enthusiastically. 
"I  wish  I  possessed  a  lad  like  him.  I  would  feel  proud." 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  have  something  to  do  with 
him?"  she  said,  and  he  replied  jokingly: 

"Sure." 

She  nestled  close,  very  close.  So  close  that  he  felt  her 
hot  breath  upon  his  cheek.  "You  do  care  for  me  a 
little,  don't  you?"  she  almost  implored.  He  was  em 
barrassed,  but  replied: 

"Of  course,  I  like  you." 


"I  LOVE  YOU/'  SHE  SAID  301 

"I  love  you,"  she  said.    "I  love  you,"  she  said  again. 

"Ooh,  mamma!"  cried  her  son,  at  that  moment. 
"Come  and  see  the  funny  man  coming  down  the  street. 
Ooh,  but  he  is  so  funny!"  She  moved  away  guiltily. 
A  moment  later,  he  arose  and  took  his  leave. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE 

"Please  Git  d'  Ole  Man  Outta  Jail" 

"Ump-um-um!  Man,  you  done  bring  dat  book  heah 
t'day  'n'  I  am'  got  a  cent.  Nary  a  cent!" 

"Oh,  but  you're  a  good  joker/'  he  laughed,  depreciat 
ingly.  "You  drew  four  or  five  great  big  dollars  Saturday 
night,  and  I  know  you  saved  a  part  of  it  for  the  book, 
as  you  said  you  would,  didn't  you?" 

"  Yesser,  yesser,  ah  knows  ah  said  I  would;  but  sumpin' 
done  happened  since  then;  sumpin'  I  wa'n't  figurin'  on. 
Sumpin'  I  sho  wasn't  lookin'  fo'." 

"Oh.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,"  embarrassed.  "Y'see,  it's  lak  dis:  Ma  ole 
man  'e  went  down  town  Sat'dy  night  'n' — well,  'e  got'n 
a  li'l  trouble.  Yes,  lak  a  nigga,  y'  know.  Got  in  dis  heah 
trouble,  'n  it  done  took  all  I  had  t'  get'm  out;  'sides,  I 
did'n'  have  'nough  'n'  had  t'  borra  frum  ma  whi'  people." 

"That's  too  bad  indeed,"  said  Wyeth.  Sometimes  he 
said  this  freely,  and  again,  his  voice  carried  a  touch  of 
disappointment  and  impatience,  because,  sometimes  he 
met  a  half  dozen  such  instances,  when  he  went  to  deliver 
on  Monday.  As  a  rule,  and  since  he  was  by  now  ac 
customed  to  it,  he  offered  sympathy  to  the  unfortunate 
wife  who  had  to  pay  so  many  fines,  and  went  his  way. 

"Yeh.  'Es  allus  gittin'  in  sumpin'.  Las'  yeah — ah 
maybe  'twas  las'  month — 'e  got  in  jail,  'n'  when  I  got  'im 
out  dat  time,  I  swo'  I's  gwine  let  'im  stay  du  nex'  time 
'e  went  off'm  heah  and  did'n'  come  back.  'N  ah  did'n' 
get'im  out  right  away  dis  time.  Ah  let'm  stay  tree  days, 
but  'e  jes'  keep  sendin'  up  heah  'n'  worrin'  'n'  worrin' 
th'  life  outta  me — 'n'  I  was  worried  anyhow— wi'  'Uh 
please  ole  'oman,  jes'  please  come'in  git  du  ole  man 
outta  jail.'  So  'e  jes'  promis'  so  faithful,  'n'  jes'  begged 
so  'a'd  until  I  was  at  last  p'vailed  on  wi'  du  'elp  a-Jaysus, 

302 


PLEASE  GIT  T'  OLE  MAN  OUTTA  JAIL     303 

t'  git'im  out  jes'  this  time — 'n'  you  c'n  jes'  depen'  on  it, 
its  the  las'  time  I  gi'n  git  dat  no  'count  nigga  a-mine 
outta  dat  place,  so  help  me  Jaysus,  du  las'  time!"  And 
she  bustled  about  her  duties,  with  a  determined  set  of 
the  head. 

"How  did  he  come  to  get  locked  up  this  time?" 
"Ugh!  Yes,  yes.  It's  lak  dis — so  'e  said.  'E  was 
down  t'  a  s'loon  'n'  got  t'  argin'  wid  annuder  nigga.  'N 
so  den,  dis  udder  nigga  done  'posed  on  'im;  'n'  den  dey 
got  t'  squabblin'  'n'  d'  p'lice  dey  runs  in  on'm  'n'  line'm 
up.  So  d'  wagin  come  'long  'n'  hurried  'm  up  t'  jail. 
So,  a'cose,  Jedge  Douglass  'e  'poses  a  big  fine  on'm  and 
dey  is  jes'  waitin'  fo'  somebody  t'  come  'n'  pay  'is  fine, 
'cause,  y'  see,  I  done  paid  it  a-fore  already.  So  dey  is 
jes'  waitin'  fo'  me  t'  come  'n'  pay  it  agin,  'n'  don'  send 
dis  nigga  t'  du  stockade,  'cause  dey's  done  got  so  many 
triflin'  nigga's  out  dare,  until  dey  hates  t'  feed  so  many, 
'n'  wou'  rather  git  th'  money  'f  dey  can." 

And  thus  it  went.  Wyeth  found  the  women,  in  a  great 
measure,  trying  to  do  right,  as  they  so  regarded  it.  But 
the  men,  from  the  saloon  to  a  tiger,  thoroughly  soaked 
themselves,  regardless  of  the  cost,  so  long  as  they  had  it. 
And  then,  to  a  crap  game,  where  they  lost  the  remainder. 
Evidently  there  must  have  been  some  winning;  but 
Wyeth  never  happened  to  find  the  winner.  They  were 
all  losers.  If  he  had  their  orders  and  expected  to  deliver 
the  book,  he  had  to  plan  to  deliver  the  same  on  Satur 
day  night,  and  before  they  found  the  enticing  game. 
And  for  telling  the  truth,  they  drew  the  line  on  that — 
refused  to  have  anything  to  do  whatever  with  keeping 
their  word.  When  he  ran  into  a  man  who  was  as  good 
as  his  word,  and  which  he  did  occasionally,  he  was  so 
surprised  that  he  became  nervous.  Many  of  the  white 
agents  and  collectors  informed  him,  that,  with  a  few 
exceptions,  they  drew  the  line  on  any  credit  business 
with  the  men,  because  they  simply  could  not  trust  them. 
Of  course  this  was  not  among  the  so-called  "best"  people; 
but  with  them,  he  had  a  hard  time  securing  an  order, 
since,  to  make  appearance  was  their  obvious  effort,  in  a 
large  measure.  When  the  cook  advised  him  to  see  the 


304  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

butler,  he  forthwith  inquired  whether  he  gambled  or 
drank;  for,  if  so,  he  thanked  her  for  her  kindness,  and 
made  no  effort  to  get  the  order,  for  it  was  useless,  in 
four  cases  out  of  five. 

Hence  it  came  to  pass,  that  Sidney  Wyeth  learned 
that  his  people  were  the  victims  of  liquor  and  gaming,  and 
this  was  the  result  of  ill  training,  ignorance,  and  lack  of 
civic  observation.  If  John  Barleycorn  was  at  the  bottom 
of  most  of  the  crime — which  grew,  in  most  instances,  out 
of  discussions  and  differences  of  opinion  regarding  trifling 
matters — ignorance  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  indulgence. 

On -this  day,  when  he  had  completed  his  work,  he 
stopped  at  the  library.  This  was  not  open  to  colored 
people,  which  he  knew;  but,  since  what  he  desired  could 
not  be  obtained  elsewhere,  he  decided  to  go  to  the  desk 
and  make  known  the  fact,  and  leave  it  to  the  civil  regard 
of  the  librarian.  He  was  ushered  into  a  room  to  one 
side,  which  was  not  always  used,  and  they  brought  any 
thing  to  him  that  he  wished.  When  he  took  his  leave, 
he  was  invited  to  call  at  any  time,  and  he  could  expect 
the  same  accommodations. 

Some  time  later  he  did,  and  while  looking  through  the 
matter  which  was  the  occasion  of  his  visit,  the  librarian 
approached  him,  and  said: 

"You  will  perhaps  be  interested  in  hearing  that  it  is 
the  desire  of  the  board,  to  take  some  steps  toward  a 
library  for  the  colored  people  of  the  city." 

"Indeed!"  he  replied.  "I  am  sure  I  am  interested. 
Nothing,  I  assure  you,  is  much  more  needed." 

"Yes,"  the  other  went  on  earnestly.  "It  has  been 
the  desire  of  the  board  to  do  so  for  some  time;  but, 
owing  to  the  fact,  I  regret  to  say,  that — well,  those  in 
your  race  whom  we  have  waited  for,  and  looked  to,  to 
take  some  initiative  with  regard  to  the  matter,  have  not 
appeared  to  care  much — well,  not  any,  as  yet."  He 
paused  a  moment,  while  Wyeth  waited. 

"I  presume,"  said  he  presently,  "that  you  are  one  of 
the  professors." 

"No,  I  am  not.  I  am  not  connected  with  any  school, 
in  fact,  I  am  not  connected  with  anything  here,  other 


PLEASE  GIT  T'  OLE  MAN  OUTTA  JAIL     306 

than  a  book,  of  which  I  am  the  author,  and  which  is 
being  circulated  by  myself  here  in  the  city.  But  I  am 
deeply  interested  in  anything  pertaining  to  what  you 
mention." 

"Oh,  I  see/'  said  the  other,  and  disappointment  was 
evident  in  his  tone.  "I  had  hoped,  from  the  interest  you 
show  in  literature,  that  you  are  connected  with  one  of 
the  schools.  But  I  will  state  what  we  have  planned  on, 
and  what  would  be  necessary  on  the  part  of  your  people, 
in  order  to  stimulate  such  a  movement. 

"This  city  is,  of  course,  unable  to  make  such  an  in 
vestment;  but  it,  the  board,  is  willing  to  cooperate  with 
the  leaders  of  your  people,  the  teachers  and  preachers,  in 
bringing  this  to  the  attention  of  northern  philanthropists, 
and,  with  a  little  effort  concentrated  on  the  issue,  it  is 
reasonable  to  suppose  that,  in  view  of  libraries  given  to 
the  different  colored  schools  in  the  south,  the  securing  of 
one  here  is  quite  possible." 

"That  is  the  way  I  have  been  compelled  to  see  it, 
through  knowledge  gained  in  observation,"  Wyeth 
agreed. 

"Oh,  it  can  be  obtained,  it  should  be  obtained."  He 
paused  again  hesitantly,  then  went  on,  somewhat  de 
terminedly:  "This  city  has  a  dreadful  record  for  crime; 
and,  while  I  regret  to  make  the  mention,  yet,  I  think 
you  will  agree  with  me — " 

"That  the  great  amount  of  the  crime  is  among  the 
black  population,"  Wyeth  assisted,  unembarrassed. 

"Exactly.  It  is  a  dreadful  affair,  this  daily  murdering 
of  human  beings,  and  this  continual  herding  to  the  chain 
gang.  These  people  go  there  and  get  in  so  much  trouble, 
because  their  minds  are  untrained — and  this  is  due  to 
their  environment,  which  is  bad.  It  is  a  distressing  con 
dition  which  the  state  is  facing.  A  library  will,  in  time, 
have  a  marked  effect  upon  existing  conditions.  There  is 
no  park  either,  in  fact,  there  is  nothing  but  the  open 
street,  the  schools  and  churches  for  the  colored  youth; 
whereas,  the  white  children  have  everything  to  help 
them  become  the  proper  men  and  women.  And  yet,  and 
here  is  where  it  becomes  awkward  for  the  public  to  do 

20 


306  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

anything.  You  are  aware  that  the  south  is  poor,  and, 
therefore,  unable  to  give  even  their  white  population 
what  the  north  can  in  regard  to  uplift;  but,  as  I  re 
marked,  the  leaders  appear  to  show  such  little  interest 
in  betterment. 

"Now,  for  instance,  if  the  teachers  and  preachers 
would  unite  themselves  into  a  body,  for  the  purpose  of 
securing  a  library  for  the  colored  people  of  Effingham, 
and  persist  in  this  matter,  eventually  they  would  have  a 
building,  and  not  less  than  fifty  thousand  volumes.  But, 
as  it  now  stands,  rarely  do  any  of  them  call  in  the  manner 
you  do.  And,  before  anything  can  be  done  by  the  board, 
it  is  expedient  on  the  part  of  these  people,  to  get  some 
public  sentiment,  in  favor  of  the  proposal.  Now,  what 
is  your  opinion  of  it?" 

"Of  course,  I  cannot  be  otherwise  than  heartily  in 
accordance  with  such  a  proposition.  And,  I  regret  to 
agree  with  you,  that  the  people  we,  or  you,  look  to  as 
pur  leaders,  show  little  interest  in  this  matter.  Publicity 
is  necessary.  I  could,  for  instance,  write  an  article 
calling  attention  to  such  a  movement,  and  have  it  pub 
lished  in  the  colored  paper;  but  they  would  not  read  it 
with  other  than  a  passing  interest  in  such  a  sheet.  I 
have  had  it  in  view  for  some  time  past  of  doing  some 
thing — or,  I  should  say,  saying  something.  I  shall  not 
yet,  however,  state  just  what  or  how  I  will  say  it;  but 
suffice  that  I  am  going  to  say  something,  and  say  it  at  a 
time  and  in  such  words,  that  the  Negro  public,  as  well 
as  the  whites,  will,  I  hope,  sit  up  and  take  notice." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  that.  Drop  in  at  any  time,  and  if 
we  can  help  you  in  any  way,  we  will  be  only  too  glad  to 
dp  so,"  said  the  librarian,  enthusiastically,  and  extended 
his  hand. 

When  Wyeth  got  to  his  room,  he  thought  long  and 
deeply  upon  the  subject.  And  when  he  retired  that 
evening,  he  had  begun  the  formulation  of  a  plan  that 
would  wake  up  this  sluggish  resignation,  which  seemed 
to  possess  the  race  to  whom  the  white  people  looked  to 
for  initiative. 

The  following  Sunday,  when  he  received  his  paper, 


PLEASE  GIT  T'  OLE  MAN  OUTTA  JAIL     307 

The  Herald,  an  article  spread  over  the  front  page,  double 
column,  caught  his  attention,  and  he  read  it  through,  as 
no  doubt  every  one  did,  who  was  interested  in  civic  wel 
fare.  It  was  another  by  the  park  commissioner,  and  was 
in  regard  to  a  park  to  be  centrally  located,  and  to  be 
used  exclusively  for  the  use  of  the  colored  population  of 
the  city. 

In  Effingham,  there  are  perhaps  a  half  dozen  small 
and  large  parks,  and  all  for  white  use  exclusively.  Dur 
ing  the  hot  days  of  the  long  summer,  black  people  must 
roast  in  their  stuffy  little  homes,  perhaps  a  fourth  of  which 
face  alleys.  Black  children  have  no  place  to  play,  no 
place  to  exercise  their  little  bodies,  or  give  free  vent  to 
their  desire  for  child  play.  Crime,  therefore,  is  their 
greatest  environment. 

Stealing  is  so  bad  in  this  city,  that  the  druggist  remarked 
to  Wyeth  one  day,  that  if  he  should  awaken  at  two  A.  M. 
and  see  a  Negro  pushing  a  box  car  up  the  street,  not  to 
become  excited  or  even  be  surprised.  Since  he  had  been 
in  Effingham,  a  man  who  lived  to  the  rear  of  his  abode, 
and  who  owned  a  horse  and  wagon,  had,  on  three  different 
occasions,  and  in  less  than  two  months,  found  it  in  a 
remote  part  of  the  city.  It  was  tied  to  a  tree  or  a  fence, 
or  maybe  not  tied  at  all.  It  was  nothing  uncommon. 
The  horse  was  used  to  haul  stuff  that  had  previously 
been  spotted  and  later  stolen.  It  is  this  that  the  colored 
children  see  and  become  acquainted  with  in  their  alley 
homes,  and  which  makes  criminals  of  so  many  long 
before  they  are  of  age. 

The  article  by  the  park  commissioner  dealt  with  these 
conditions,  as  well  as  with  the  great  amount  of  murder 
committed  in  the  city.  It  was  the  desire,  to  locate  a 
park  near  the  heart  of  the  city,  so  that  these  little  chil 
dren  with  the  ebony  faces,  might  find  some  relief  from 
their  alley  homes,  and  in  that  way,  help  a  little  toward 
the  discouragement  of  so  much  crime.  The  jail  was 
overrun  with  bdth  women  and  men  prisoners;  the  funds 
for  the  purpose  of  building  a  larger  jail  was  not  forth 
coming,  so  the  city  could  dp  the  least  by  giving  these 
people  some  place  of  recreation. 


308  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

However,  went  on  the  commissioner's  article,  neither 
the  city  nor  the  commissioner  could  be  expected  to  make 
any  move  toward  giving  this  to  the  colored  people,  until 
the  colored  people  themselves,  through  their  leaders,  the 
preachers  and  teachers,  of  which  there  was  estimated  to 
be  in  the  neighborhood  of  three  hundred,  would  show,  in 
some  manner,  that  they  desired  it.  To  purchase  the 
ground  and  remove  the  buildings  thereon,  prepare  and 
dress  it  down  to  a  park,  would,  of  course,  require  a  con 
siderable  outlay  of  capital.  The  commissioner,  therefore, 
would  be  glad  to  consult  with  this  body  of  people  with  a 
view  to  that  end.  If  it  was  not  convenient  for  all  to 
come,  he  added,  kindly  write  him  their  views  and  desires 
with  regard  to  the  matter.  But  the  commissioners  would 
consider  it  more  demonstrative,  if  the  teachers  and 
preachers  of  the  city,  colored,  would  call  upon  him  in 
person;  and,  in  conclusion,  he  set  a  day,  and  requested 
that  as  many,  if  not  all  of  them,  would  call  at  his  office 
on  the  afternoon  of  the  following  Wednesday. 

Wyeth  spoke  of  the  matter  to  those  he  knew;  few 
though,  had  concerned  themselves  as  much  as  to  read  it 
even;  while  others  made  idle  remarks,  and  so  the  day 
came. 

Yes,  it  came,  and  to  the  office  went,  to  be  exact,  five 
teachers  and  three  preachers  out  of  a  possible  total 
number  of  three  hundred.  The  commissioner  was  too 
discouraged  to  keep  these  precious  eight  very  long,  so, 
with  a  few  words,  announcement  was  made  that  a  pasture, 
five  miles  from  town,  could  be  leased  for  a  small  figure, 
and  that  a  car  line  went  within  a  mile  of  it;  so  that  it 
was  moved  and  seconded,  and  the  colored  people  got  a 
park. 

The  following  day,  the  papers  were  considerate  enough 
to  make  small  mention  of  it,  and  that  was  the  end  of  the 
matter. 

When  Sidney  Wyeth  had  learned  the  details,  he  decided 
upon  a  plan  which  will  be  unfolded  in  a  later  chapter. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO 

"This  Man  Is  Losing  His  Mind" 

"Hello,  stranger,"  said  Miss  Palmer  one  beautiful 
morning,  when  he  came  strolling  by.  "I  haven't  seen 
you  for  a  long  time/'  she  said,  smiling  not  overly  pleasant. 
In  fact,  Miss  Palmer  looked  worn,  and  acted  likewise. 
She  did  not  present  a  hopeful  example,  as  Wyeth  saw  her 
now.  She  was  sweeping  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  her 
place  with  a  broom  that  was  worn  to  the  last  threads, 
and  more.  These  had  been  cut,  and  only  the  small  wire 
held  it  to  the  handle. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  exclaimed,  upon  looking  at  it. 
"What  do  you  call  that?"  and  pointed  at  it  with  a 
laugh.  She  looked  sad  and  replied: 

"That's  my  broom.  Isn't  it  a  shame?  But  it's  all 
the  broom  I  have.  Won't  you  buy  me  one,  and  give  it  to 
me  as  a  present?  You  make  plenty  of  money,  and  I 
have  five  fifty  in  the  house  for  you  myself. ' '  She  smiled  up 
into  his  face  now  wearily,  and  he  was  touched.  He  was, 
moreover,  sorry  now  for  what  he  had  said.  But  to  make 
amends,  he  replied  cheerfully: 

"Sure,  sis.  Take  any  part  of  what  is  due  me,  and  use 
it  for  that  purpose." 

"That  is  so  sweet  of  you,"  she  smiled,  gratefully.  "I 
always  believed  you  were  sweet,  regardless  of  the  fact 
that  of  late  you  have  become  so  awful." 

"How's  that?"  he  inquired,  curiously. 

"  Oh,  I  have  been  constrained  to  believe  you  are  losing 
your  mind.  You  have  succeeded  in  criticising  about 
everybody  and  everything,  that  pertains  to  the  good 
colored  people  of  this  city." 

"Oh,  Miss  Palmer,"  he  cried,  looking  hurt,  "I  have  not 
criticised  everybody  and  everything.  I  have  only  shown 

309 


310  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

that  I  think  a  lot  of  the  so-called  good  people  are  four- 
flushers  and  selfish  creatures,  with  no  real  love  for  the 
race,  nor  any  regard  for  the  civic  improvement  of  these 
black  people.  But  I  know  lots  of  good,  kind,  sincere 
colored  people  in  this  town,  that  I  am  proud  of  as  mem 
bers  of  the  race." 

"Come  into  the  house,"  she  invited,  and  presently 
they  were  seated  in  the  parlor.  At  once  Miss  Palmer 
took  up  the  discussion  of  society,  and  the  buying  of 
homes,  which  had  reached  a  degree  of  impracticability 
among  the  colored  people,  notwithstanding  the  sound 
idea. 

All  over  the  country,  during  this  pilgrimage,  Wyeth  had 
witnessed  this  purchase  idea  with  a  mark  of  encourage 
ment.  And,  to  say  that  they  were  succeeding,  was  a  fact 
that  meant  a  great  deal  to  their  future  welfare. 

Miss  Palmer  delighted  always  to  discuss  the  buying 
of  a  home,  and  marrying.  Another  teacher  was  visiting 
her  that  day,  and  likewise  shared  her  views.  Wyeth 
did  too,  but  he  always  had  questions  to  ask,  that  some 
times  made  the  discussion  rather  upset. 

Now  he  read  the  Negro  paper,  and  had  fearfully  ob 
served  that  an  unusual  and  alarming  amount  of  fore 
closures  was  the  order.  In  conversation  with  the  numer 
ous  real  estate  dealers,  he  learned,  moreover,  that  many 
of  the  attempts  at  purchasing,  were  foredoomed  to 
failure  when  made;  that  to  own  a  home,  in  a  great 
many  cases  had  become  a  fetish,  and  was,  therefore,  not 
based  upon  a  practical  consideration  in  the  beginning. 

A  very  successful  dealer,  colored,  had  told  him  con 
fidentially,  that  he  sold  many  homes,  and  would  have 
bet,  if  it  had  been  expedient,  that  they  would  not  be 
able  to  keep  the  payments  up  for  a  year. 

"How  does  so  much  of  this  come  about?"  he  had 
inquired. 

"Notoriety.  Too  many  people  do  not  study,  although 
they  may  have  a  liberal  school  training  among  our 
people.  It's  the  great  ambition  of  too  many,  to  get  into 
a  home  with  the  first  object  of  being  seen  therein,  to 
show  to  their  friends  and  put  on  airs.  They  buy  with 


"THIS  MAN  IS  LOSING  HIS  MIND"       311 

no  idea  whatever  as  to  value,  liability  or  anything. 
They  have  simply  stinted  themselves  until  they  have 
managed  to  save  a  few  dollars,  and  desire  to  get  into  the 
biggest  home  possible,  to  be  where  they  can  be  seen  by 
their  friends/' 

"The  rate  of  interest  appears  to  be  very  high,  I  have 
observed,"  said  he,  by  way  of  comment.  The  other 
looked  at  him  meaningly,  and  then  said: 

"Interest  eats  .these  people  alive  here;  just  sucks  their 
life's  blood — but  it  is  not  that  alone.  Not  one  in  five 
knows  how  to  arrange  a  loan.  They  permit  themselves 
to  be  governed  by  some  dealer,  who,  in  almost  every 
instant,  is  the  worst  grafter  possible.  They  will  make  a 
loan  with  a  life  of  three  years,  at  eight  per  cent  interest, 
and  five  per  cent  commission.  Now  you  know  that  no 
loan  running  three  years,  on  property  that  poor  people 
are  trying  to  buy  on  the  installment  plan,  is  practical. 
Yet  that  is  the  kind  of  loan  that  most  of  these  cheap 
sharks  offer  to  the  masses  of  our  people,  who  have  no 
judgment.  A  Negro  is  unable,  as  a  rule,  to  realize  that 
three  years  is  a  very  short  time.  He  is  compelled  to 
learn  by  bitter  experience.  The  worst  feature  of  this  is, 
that  at  the  end  of  it,  he  is  so  discouraged,  that  often  he 
does  not  benefit  by  this  experience,  because  the  failure 
has  gotten  his  heart,  and  he  is  done  for. 

"At  the  end  of  three  years,  which  seems  like  three  days 
when  they  are  trying  to  buy  a  home,  the  shark  is  around 
for  a  renewal  of  the  mortgage,  and  must,  therefore, 
collect  another  cash  commission  of  five  per  cent.  Think 
of  it!  In  two- thirds  of  such  instances,  it  takes  every 
dime  they  have  paid  in  those  three  years.  Sometimes 
more.  Now  how  can  people  pay  for  a  home  under  such 
conditions!  But  there  is  another  side  of  it.  And  it  all 
comes  from  the  inability  of  our  people  to  see  further 
than  their  noses. 

"Almost  all  these  purchases  are  made  beyond  the 
extension  of  the  sewerage,  often  the  water  works,  posi 
tively  no  street  improvements,  and  side  walks  are  rare; 
but,  in  three  years,  in  order  to  boom  the  property,  the 
promoter  is  active  in  bringing  some  of  these  improve- 


312  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

ments  within  reach  of  this  property.  That  adds  about 
one-half  to  two-thirds  more  to  the  cost  of  the  property 
he  is  trying  to  buy.  Moreover,  when  these  people  know 
anything,  they  will  not  buy  a  house  built  by  these  pro 
moters,  for  it  is  nothing  but  the  cheapest  shell  they  can 
get  to  stand,  but  attractive  from  the  outside.  In  two 
years,  the  occupant  is  fortunate  if  he  doesn't  have  to 
build  another. 

"Then  comes  the  great  day.  These  people  cannot  pay 
that  commission  over  again,  and  the  loan  company 
doesn't  care  to  increase  the  loan,  maybe,  by  including 
the  commission  in  a  new  one.  If  they  are  unable  to 
make  arrangements  with  a  bank,  and  that  means  they 
are  going  to  deed  them  the  property,  seven  cases  in  ten, 
foreclosure  proceedings  are  instituted.  The  property  is 
finally  deeded  by  the  sheriff  to  the  mortgagee.  Now 
here  is  another  phase:  This  piece  of  property  can  then 
be  sold  quicker  than  before,  for  this  reason:  It  is  very 
easy  to  frame  up  a  tale,  to  the  effect  that  a  party  who 
was  purchasing  the  place  was  a  shiftless  drunkard,  or 
anything,  and  imagination  can  supply  the  rest;  but, 
inasmuch  as  they  had  taken  the  property  back,  they  are 
now  offering  it  at  a  greatly  reduced  price  and  better 
terms.  There  are  so  many  subtle  ways  of  drawing  people 
in,  that  it  would  take  a  volume  to  relate  them  all;  but 
they  come  to  the  same  in  the  end.  Installment  property 
at  two  thousand  dollars  can  be  bought  for  about  twelve 
to  not  exceed  fifteen  hundred.  Instead  of  commission 
and  everything  else,  buying  by  the  installment  plan  in 
this,  and  every  overboomed  southern  town,  costs  from 
twice  to  three  times  what  the  property  would  actually 
cost,  if  the  purchser  could  pay  half  of  the  purchase 
price  cash,  for,  in  that  way  he  could  secure  terms,  and 
could  pay  interest  rate  on  the  remainder.  In  time  he 
would  get  the  same  paid,  and  have  his  little  home." 

"And  that,  you  feel,  is  the  reason  for  all  this  f ore- 
closure?  "  said  Wyeth. 

"That  is  the  cause  of  it.  Why,  advertising  property 
for  foreclosure  has  become  a  feature  of  competition, 
between  the  three  Negro  papers  in  this  town.  They  get 


"THIS  MAN  IS  LOSING  HIS  MIND"       818 

more  money  out  of  that  end,  than  they  do  from  the  ad 
vertisements  through  straight  business,  for  the  purpose 
of  selling  it  originally." 

"It  would  seem  that  the  people  would  get  on  to  such 
methods  by  and  by/'  Wyeth  commented. 

"Some,  of  course,  do,  and  avoid  it;  but  you  cannot 
imagine  how  many  do  not.  It  all  comes  about  through 
a  lack  of  general  intelligence.  Too  many  of  our  people 
do  not  read  anything;  are,  therefore,  without  any  vision 
or  judgment  of  their  own.  They  don't  know.  And,  of 
course,  are  made  the  goats  of  those  who  do." 

"So  that  explains  why  a  portion  of  this  town  to  the 
west,  and  which  is  occupied  almost  exclusively  by  our 
people,  has  such  dreadful  streets  and  no  sidewalks  what 
ever." 

"That's  it.  They  will,  perhaps,  have  none  for  the  next 
twenty-five  years.  Top  much  property  is  being  bought, 
and  so  little  is  being  paid  for,  that  it  is  a  continual  change 
about." 

"  I  find  a  great  many  of  the  people — intelligent  people — 
who  do  not  care  to  see  this  side  of  it,"  Wyeth  remarked. 

"  Half  of  the  school  teachers,  for  instance,  seem  to  wish 
not  to  see  it.  And  they  get  stung!  But  they  are  so 
anxious  to  be  seen,  and  to  be  referred  to  in  a  position 
beyond  their  means,  no  wonder." 

So  Sidney  Wyeth  had  to  take  this  man's  point  of  view 
for  more  than  one  reason.  Like  Attalia — but  worse, 
these  people  considered  literature,  as  a  whole,  dead 
stock.  More  than  sixty  thousand  in  number,  the  demand 
among  them  for  books  and  magazines,  was  insufficient  to 
justify  any  one's  running  a  place  for  such  a  purpose.  It 
was  not  large  enough  to  justify  either  of  the  Negro  drug 
stores  carrying  periodicals  in  stock,  even  those  that 
were  carried  by  all  white  drug  stores,  excepting  those  in 
districts  occupied  and  patronized  by  the  colored  people. 
And  with  all  this,  there  was  not  the  least  claim  for  that 
kind  of  knowledge.  More  than  a  hundred  churches  never 
encouraged  the  people  to  read  anything  but  the  Bible: 
apparently,  the  obtaining  of  a  library  had  not  worried 
any  but  Sidney  Wyeth;  it  has  been  seen  how  they 


314  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

worried  over  the  securing  of  a  park.  Is  it  a  wonder, 
with  all  this  under  his  observation,  that  Sidney  Wyeth, 
who  came  from  a  land  where  people  read  and  thought, 
and  had  some  perspective,  eventually  came  to  be  regarded 
as  a  chronic  critic?  He  had  witnessed  more  murders  than 
he  had  in  all  the  days  of  his  life. 

Haying  digressed  to  such  a  length,  we  will  return  now 
to  Miss  Annie  Palmer,  who  was  possessed  with  the  am 
bition  to  be  established  in  a  home  of  her  own,  and  to  be 
seen  by  those  who  knew  her. 

"Just  think  of  it,  suga',"  she  said  to  the  other  teacher. 
"You  can  get  the  nicest  kind  of  a  home  in  the  west  end 
for  a  moderate  sum,  and  only  fifty  or  a  hundred  dollars 
down  on  the  best  of  them.  The  rest  is  paid  just  like  you 
pay  rent,  and  no  more."  It  was  this,  Wyeth  recalled, 
that  got  them.  "It  cost  no  more  than  to  pay  rent  after 
the  first  payment." 

"Um-um,"  from  the  other. 

"And  the  sewers,  and  sidewalks,  and  streets  and  lights 
are  all  there,"  said  Wyeth  kindly. 

"Oh,  there  you  go  for  an  argument,"  Miss  Palmer 
retorted,  angrily.  Wyeth  grinned. 

"Well,  these  things  have  all  been  completed  to  include 
this  property.  ..." 

Miss  Palmer  said  nothing  to  him  in  reply. 

"And  you  can  get  it  after  the  first  payment  like  paying 
rent,"  commented  the  other  teacher. 

"Um-m,"  let  out  Miss  Palmer,  sweetly. 

"What  sweet  real  estate  dealer  offers  such  bargains 
and  easy  things?"  said  Wyeth,  humorously.  The  drug 
gist,  who  knew  everybody's  business,  had  told  him  that 
Miss  Palmer,  at  one  time,  was  the  object  of  every  real 
estate  shark  in  Effingham.  And  then  some  one  lodged 
her  in  the  suburbs,  and  since,  she  had  been  left  alone. 
So  he  wondered  whether  it  was  because  Miss  Palmer,  as 
a  lady  high  in  colored  society,  could  not  conveniently  get 
such  an  amount  together. 

"This  man  is  losing  his  mind,"  she  said,  to  the  other 
teacher.  The  other  now  regarded  Wyeth  dubiously. 
He  grinned  and  then  said: 


"THIS  MAN  IS  LOSING  HIS  MIND"       315 

"If  you  start  buying,  or  biting  on  one  of  these  easy 
homes  in  the  west  end  that  you  refer  to,  you  are  going 
to  lose  your  head." 

"Oh,  is  that  so,"  Miss  Palmer  essayed,  with  much 
spirit.  "Do  you  suppose,  that  with  me  teaching  in  the 
schools  of  this  city  for  thirteen  years — "  and  she  had 
begun  at  twenty-two,  so  she  told  him  once — "I  do  not 
know  something!  And  if  you  infer  that  I  haven't  a 
hundred  dollars,  then  you  haven't  become  acquainted 
with  Annie  Palmer!  Don't  you  worry  about  her,  for  she 
always  has  a  roll  convenient.  And  you  never  see  any 
collectors  coming  here,  and  leaving  without  what  they 
came  for."  She  was  very  dignified  now,  as  she  went  to 
the  door  to  answer  a  knock. 

The  room  in  which  they  sat  opened  into  a  small  hall 
way,  which  was  entered  from  the  street  by  a  glass  door. 
It  was  at  this  open  door,  that  a  man  stood,  who,  however, 
could  not  be  seen  from  where  Miss  Palmer's  company  sat. 
He  could  be  heard,  though.  And  they,  the  company, 
couldn't  help  hearing.  They  were  not  eavesdropping.  It 
was  then  that  Wyeth  learned  Miss  Palmer  was  vain. 
He  could  not  help  recalling,  that  if  "no  collectors  went 
away  without  what  they  came  for,"  it  was  because  they 
expected  nothing  when  they  came.  So,  when  Miss 
Palmer  had  completed  her  trite  sentence  and  sallied  forth 
to  answer  the  knock,  they  could  not  help  hearing  her 
say  very  quickly,  and  with  some  embarrassment: 

"Oh,  you  are  too  early.  Come  back  tomorrow.  I 
have  my  books  to  deliver  this  afternoon,  and  will  be 
ready  for  you  tomorrow,  so — " 

That  was  as  far  as  she  got.  And  her  company  could 
not  be  censured  for  overhearing  the  rest  of  it,  that  is, 
what  the  other  made  in  reply.  The  chances  are  the 
other  was  not  aware  of  their  presence,  a  few  feet  away, 
but  that  is  a  matter  for  conjecture.  Miss  Palmer  could 
be  heard  attempting  to  finish  with  him,  without  his  words 
that  came  in  a  flow.  She  was  nervous,  but  he  would 
have  his  say,  and  so  he  said,  cutting  off  her  discourse: 

"I'm  tired  of  this  stalling,  all  this  stalling  you  have 
been  handing  us  for  months.  This  has  got  to  come  to 
an  end." 


316  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

'Til  bring  it  to  the  office,  I—" 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  and  you" knowlyou 
won't!" 

"I'll  pay  you  tomorrow,  sure,  sure,  sure!"  Why 
didn't  the  man  be  a  gentleman  and  go,  go,  go!  Plainly 
Miss  Palmer  was  dreadfully  nervous,  more,  as  she  could 
be  heard  by  those  who  were  listening.  She  was  plainly 
in  agony.  The  collector  was  on  the  warpath,  and  went 
on  relentlessly: 

"If  you  haven't  made  some  disposition  of  it  by  Monday 
a  week,  get  that  stuff  ready  for  the  wagon,"  and  a  moment 
later  his  steps  died  away  in  the  distance. 

For  one  moment,  Wyeth  saw  the  face  of  her  friend, 
but  he  couldn't  believe  it!  And  still,  when  Miss  Palmer 
returned  and  resumed  her  discussion  with  regard  to  buy 
ing  homes,  he  would  have  sworn  that  the  other  had  to 
smother  very  quickly  a  gleeful  expression. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE 

"I'll  Brand  You  as  a  Faker" 

"Eh,  there!  Get  that  car  on  switch  A!  Now,  let  her 
come  back  to  the  left.  All  forward  no-ow!  Engineer, 
what's  the  matter  with  you  today?  Are  you  drunk? 
Pull  that  train  forward  and  back  it  up  as  I  tell  you,  or  I 
shall  report  you  to  the  superintendent!  You're  devil 
ishly  contrary  today." 

"Oh,  Sam,"  called  some  one. 

"Aw,  don't  bother  me  today.  I'm  in  a  hurry.  I  am 
called  by  the  board  of  directors  to  talk  over  the  purchase 
of  the  A.  G.  S.  I  am  chairman  of  the  committee,  and 
have  no  time  to  talk  with  you." 

"Hello,  Sam,"  greeted  Wyeth,  as  this  worthy  came 
hurriedly  by.  Sam  halted  a  moment  and  gazed  at  him, 
then  walked  forward  and  extended  his  hand,  crying: 

"Mr.  Morgan.  I'm  glad  to  see  you.  I  am  called  by 
the  directors  of  the  Southern  Railway,  with  regard  to 
purchasing  that  line  and  merging  it  with  the  L.  &  N." 

"I  see.  Who  owns  the  L.  &  N.  now,"  he  inquired, 
casually. 

"Me." 

"And  the  A.  G.  S.?" 

"I  only  have  a  half  interest  in  that  now." 

"I  understand  that  you  refused  to  buy  out  the  con 
trolling  interest  in  the  Tennessee  Coal  and  Iron  Com 
pany." 

"Yes,  I  refused.  I  don't  like  the  line-up  in  the  director 
ship.  And,  besides,  I  cannot  see  my  way  clear  to  act  as 
chairman  of  the  board  of  control,  therefore,  I  considered 
it  unwise  to  invest  any  millions  in  the  thing." 

"Well,  I  won't  detain  you,  since  I  know  you  are  so 
busy.  Good  day." 


317 


318  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"Good  day,  Mr.  Morgan.  Try  to  call  at  my  office  in 
the  Empire  building  before  you  leave  town. 

"Engineer,  if  you  don't  switch  better,  call  at  the  office 
this  evening  and  get  your  time.  I  will  fire  you,"  and 
Sam  hurried  to  his  office,  just  as  John  Moore  came  from 
another  direction,  sleepy-eyed,  and  looking  like  the  "last 
rose  of  summer".  The  Mis'  was  waiting  for  him,  and 
as  soon  as  he  was  inside,  she  inquired  with  concealed 
suspicion: 

"Well,  where  were  you  last  night?" 

"In  jail." 

"You  seem  fond  of  that  place  of  late." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  sleepily. 

"Where  did  they  get  you  this  time?" 

"Rosie's." 

"You've  been  quite  a  frequenter  about  there  of 
late  .  .  ." 

"That's  mah  business.  Don't  try  t'  hand  me  no 
argerment  this  morning.  Fix  me  something  to  eat.  I'm 
hongry." 

"Didn't  you  have  breakfast  up  there;  but  then  it 
seems  you  left  before  breakfast?  How  came  you  back 
so  early?  I  didn't  look  for  you  so  soon." 

"How  did  you  know  that  I  had  been  got?  You  are 
too  smart  nowaday's  anyhow." 

"Who  went  your  bond?" 

He  regarded  her  out  of  impatient  eyes  now.  He 
glared  at  her,  but  said:  "I  was  eight  dollars  winner,  and 
had  two  dollars  besides." 

"Um-m.  So  you  give  that  to  a  professional  bonds 
man." 

"Hello,"  came  a  call  from  the  outside. 

"Hello,"  called  back  the  Mis'.    "Come  in." 

"Is  John  Moore  here?"  said  a  bad  looking  Negro,  with 
a  head  like  a  monkey  and  no  chin  at  all.  Moore  looked 
uneasy. 

"Oh,  here  you  are,"  said  the  other,  as  he  spied  Moore. 
His  tone  was  full  of  contempt,  and  a  touch  of  anger  was 
mingled.  "Where  is  my  part  for  the  stuff  you  disposed 
of?" 


"I'LL  BRAND  YOU  AS  A  FAKER"         319 

"Ssh!    Not  so  loud." 

"Not  so  the  devil!  You  can't  shoo  me  away  any 
longer.  You  aint  paid  me  for  the  last  bunch  a  chicken 
I  brung  heah;  and  now  you  want  t'  shoo  me  away  on 
this  last  stuff  we  done  stole  togedder." 

"Will  you  hush.    We'll  talk  this  matter  over  outside." 

"We's  go'n  talk  it  over  heah,  'n'  you  go'n  hand  me 
oye  fo'  dollah's,  ah  I'm  go'in'  t'  take  it  outta  yo'  stinkin' 
hide!"  He  looked  at  Moore  now  with  an  evil  eye,  and 
that  worthy  backed  up  and  picked  up  a  pair  of  scissors, 
that  he  had  brought  in  late  one  night  from  one  of  the 
mysterious  directions. 

"Oh,  you  go'n  push  them  things  through  me,  eh! 
All  right,  ole  nigga.  This  is  wha  you  'n'  me  mixes  it. 
I  gi'n  fix  you  ah  you  gi'n  fix  me,"  and  with  that  he 
started  in  the  other's  direction. 

"Now,  Sha'p  Head.  Ain'  I  done  always  treated  you 
right?"  Moore  whimpered. 

"Naw,  naw!  'n  that's  what  I'm  gi'n  land  on  you 
cause!" 

"Now  just  name  a  time  when  I  ain',"  Moore  tempor 
ized,  nervously. 

"Naw,  I  say.  Git  out  that  winda  'f  you  don't  wanta 
be  killed.  Git  out  wi'  out  awgument,  cause  I  g'in  to 
make  you  run  some.  Don't  you  b'lieve  I'm  go'n  run  yu?" 

'  'C'ose  I  b'lieve  you.  I  b'lieve  you  go'n  come  in  heah 
'n'  run  me  outta  ma  house,  outta  ma  house,"  cried 
Moore,  pitepusly. 

"Come  pickin'  up  a  pair  a-scissors  two  feet  long  to 
push  in  me,"  roared  the  other.  "I  got  a  notion  t'  run 
yu  ontell  yo'  ankles  gits  hot.  I'll  run  yu  six  blocks,  you 
lop  eared  bull  dog!" 

"You  outta  be  'shamed  t'  treat  me  that  way,  Sha'p 
head,  'n'  you  know  you  outta!"  went  on  Moore,  sooth 
ingly. 

"Come  outside,  John  Moore,  'n'  leave  yo'  coat  inside. 
I'm  go'n'  run  y'  six  blocks,  so  help  me  Gawd!" 

"All  right,  Sha'p  Head.  T  you  jes'  gotta  run  me 
outta  ma  house,  then  go  on  outside.  I'm  a-comin." 

The  other  came  through  the  room  where  Wyeth  and 


320  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

Legs  were  trying  to  play  a  game  of  checkers.  He  was 
puffing  so  hard,  that  he  appeared  to  be  afraid  of  himself. 
"That  low  down  skunk!  I'm  go'n  run  that  nigga  on  tell 
Ms  ankle's  done  be  so  hot  that  the  streets  go'n  melt 
behind  him!  Doggone  'im!" 

"Are  you  outside,  Sha'p  Head?"  called  Moore,  ner 
vously. 

"I'm  out  heah,  you  liver  eater.  Come  out  wi'  yo 
ankle's  greased,  'cause  you  go'n  run  six  blocks  faster  yu 
ebber  did  in  yo'  life;  'n'  when  you  gits  to  d'  end  of  it, 
F  gi'n  kill  yu!" 

"Bang!"  went  the  door,  and  the  key  turned.  To 
describe  the  indignation  of  Moore  for  the  next  few 
minutes;  what  he  would  do;  what  he  ought  to  have 
done,  would  be  beyond  the  possibilities  of  our  pen.  He 
was  positively  so  bad  that  he  had  much  effort  to  keep 
from  doing  injury  to  himself.  Legs  winked  at  Wyeth, 
and  then,  rising,  unlocked  the  door  and  slipped  out 
quietly.  A  moment  later,  a  terrible  banging  was  in 
stituted  upon  the  door.  Wyeth  held  it  closed,  with  a 
great  feigned  effort. 

"Let  me  at  him!  Let  me  at  him!"  cried  Legs  from 
the  outside,  but  John  Moore  didn't  wait  to  hear  any 
more.  A  crash  and  a  rattle  as  of  falling  glass  scattered 
about,  showed  that  an  exit  was  unconventionally  made 
in  the  rear.  Wyeth  and  Legs  came  around  in  time  to  see 
him  going  over  the  back  fence.  The  next  time  they  saw 
him,  he  was  leading  the  other  by  about  two  rods,  as 
they  went  up  the  street. 

"Jumped  right  into  his  jaws,"  laughed  Glen  view,  as 
they  watched  the  chase  from  the  porch. 

Ten  minutes  later,  some  one  tore  into  the  house,  and 
turned  the  key  of  the  door  so  quickly,  that  it  seemed  like 
an  automatic  spring  lock. 

It  was  John  Moore. 

"Let's  go  down  to  the  drug  store,"  suggested  Wyeth. 
Legs  didn't  hang  out  in  that  direction,  so  Glenview  was 
the  recipient  of  the  suggestion.  He  couldn't,  so,  presently, 
Wyeth  went  alone. 

"They  are  going  to  fall  down  in  both  those  towns,  on 


"I'LL  BRAND  YOU  AS  A  FAKER"         321 

the  securing  of  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  for  Negroes,  and  I  knew 
they  would  when  they  started/'  the  druggist  was  saying, 
when  Wyeth  entered. 

"Negroes  can  secure  nothing  but  churches  down  south," 
commented  another. 

"They  have  only  a  few  weeks  left,  before  the  time 
limit  on  the  appropriations  from  the  Jew  expires.  He 
offered  twenty-five  thousand  to  any  association  where  the 
people  secured  an  additional  seventy-five  thousand. 
Now  six  months  after  the  campaign  for  the  association  in 
Grantville,"  so  said  a  mail  clerk  who  ran  to  that  city, 
"less  than  five  thousand  in  cash,  out  of  a  total  of  more 
than  thirty-three  thousand  dollars  subscribed,  has  been 
collected  to  date.  How  can  this — what  is  the  name  of 
the  secretary  of  the  proposed  association  -  -  yes,  I 
have  it,  Jacobs — Rev.  Wilson  Jacobs,  figure  they  will  be 
able  to  secure  one  in  that  town?" 

"It's  all  stuff.  >|Nigga's  down  here  would  do  nothing 
with  an  association  no  way,"  said  the  druggist. 

"I  stopped  at  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  when  I  was  in  Chicago 
this  summer,"  said  the  bookkeeper  in  the  Dime  Savings 
Bank.  "It  appears  to  be  conducted  with  great  success, 
and  is  surely  a  fine,  clean,  up-to-date  place  to  stop, 
regardless  of  the  fact  that  almost  everything  is  open  to 
Negroes  in  that  city." 

"Yes,  but  the  Negroes  in  Chicago  are  civilized,"  said 
another.  "These  Negroes  down  here  would  have  to  have 
a  half  dozen  police  standing  around  to  keep  order,  if  they 
had  one." 

"But  don't  you  feel  such  a  thing  in  this  town  would  act 
as  a  great  moral  benefit?"  suggested  Wyeth,  at  this 
juncture. 

"We  now  hear  from  Tempest,"  smiled  the  druggist. 
He  had  not  been  able,  as  yet,  to  reconcile  himself  to  the 
bet  he  lost  some  months  before,  and  had  since  a  grudge 
against  Wyeth. 

"I  see  by  today's  paper,  that  Wilson  Jacobs  will 
address  the  people  of  the  city  in  regard  to  the  Christian 
forward  movement,  and  will  be  assisted  by  several  white 
men  of  high  standing  in  the  city." 

21 


322  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"Well,  speeches  will  be  all  right;  but  I'd  bet  a  dollar 
to  a  dime  that  they  will  never  secure  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  in 
the  town  he  represents.  As  for  Efnngham,  no  chance/' 

"You  seem  to  be  successful  in  getting  the  biggest  kind 
of  churches  here,"  said  Wyeth. 

"Yes/'  returned  the  druggist,  "and  they  will  be  paying 
for  them,  as  they  have  been  for  the  last — since  I  ever 
knew  anything." 

"But  they  have  the  churches,  nevertheless." 

"Oh,  so  far  as  that  goes,  yes." 

"They  must  have  had  to  pay  as  much  as  forty  per  cent 
of  the  cost,|to  secure  a  loan  for  the  remainder?" 

"Yes,  Tempest;  but  what  has  that  to  do  with  it?" 

"Well,  if  the  big  church  on  the  corner  up  the  street 
could  be  secured  at  a  cost  of  seventy-five  thousand 
dollars,  half  or  more  of  which  I  understand  has  been 
paid,  then,  a  like  amount  should  be  available  in  a  town 
of  this  size,  and  which  has  an  equal  number  of  colored 
people,  shouldn't  it?" 

"Tempest  is  out  for  argument,"  said  the  druggist. 

"No  argument,  when  almost  every  large  city  in  the 
north — and  some  not  as  large  as  this  town — have  a 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  for  its  black  population.  And  more  than 
half  that  have  such,  have  not  nearly  the  colored  popula 
tion  that  this  town  has,  and  positively  have  not  nearly 
the  need." 

"Tempest  has  been  worrying  about  a  library,  a  park, 
and  everything  else  for  this  town,  in  the  months  he  has 
been  here,"  the  druggist  said,  looking  almost  amused. 
Wyeth  took  exception. 

"I  am  interested  in  this  town,  and  in  another,  where  I 
see  and  read  of  more  crime  and  murder,  than  I  ever 
dreamed  was  possible." 

"Then,  Tempest,"  said  the  druggist,  naively,  "you 
ought  to  get  one.  Or,  at  least,  you  ought  to  awaken,  by 
some  initiative  on  your  part,  some  enthusiasm  to  that 
end.  You  see  all  we  need,  you  do,  a  globe  trotter,  and 
you  have  certainly  criticised  to  that  end,  and  now,"  his 
voice  took  on  a  cold,  hard  tone,  "I  say:  Do  something 
to  prove  this  criticism  worth  the  while,  or  I'll  brand  you 
as  a  faker — a  frost,  with  all  your  premeditated  ideas!" 


"I'LL  BRAND  YOU  AS  A  FAKER"         323 

Every  one  about  was  silent,  while  their  eyes  turned 
and  regarded  Sidney  Wyeth.  About  the  corners  of  their 
mouths  a  smile  that  spelled  of  a  sneer,  played  subtly. 
If  Sidney  Wyeth  didn't  see  it,  he  at  least  felt  it.  And  in 
that  moment,  he  realized  that  he  would  not  dare  show 
his  face  about  this  place,  lest  he  be  scorned  henceforth, 
if  he  didn't  take  the  stand  the  druggist  had  taken. 

"Very  well,  Dr.  Randall,  he  said,  rising.  "I  shall  do 
so."  He  regarded  them  all  for  a  moment,  with  a  firm 
sweep  of  his  eyes,  and,  next,  he  turned  and  left  the  store. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR 

The  Arraignment 

"I  guess  that  will  do,"  whispered  Wyeth  to  himself, 
arising  from  his  typewriter  at  one-thirty  the  following 
morning.  Carefully  he  placed  the  typewritten  pages  in 
the  drawer,  and  retired. 

"A  colored  man  to  see  you,  Mr.  Byron,"  said  the  clerk, 
to  the  managing  editor  of  the  Effingham  Age-Herald. 

"Show  him  in,"  said  the  other  shortly,  and  kept  about 
his  work.  A  moment  later,  Sidney  Wyeth  stood  before 
the  editor. 

"Well?" 

"I  should  like  twenty  minutes  talk  with  you,  Mr. 
Byron,"  said  the  other  calmly. 

The  editor  laid  down  his  pen,  and  raising  his  eyes,  he 
began  at  the  feet,  which  were  somewhat  large,  ran  the  gaze 
up  a  pair  of  long  legs,  and  finally  saw  a  chin,  a  nose  and 
the  eyes,  and  there  they  stopped.  He  had  been  in  the 
act  of  freezing,  what  he  was  confident  was  a  crank,  a 
fool,  or  a  knave.  To  walk  calmly  into  the  office  of  the 
managing  editor,  and  ask  for  twenty  minutes  of  his  time! 
It  was  incredulous.  And  yet,  when  he  saw  the  eyes  of 
the  other,  something  therein  told  him  strangely,  that  this 
man  was  no  fool,  nor  a  knave — nor  any  of  the  things  he 
had  been  feeling.  He  was — well,  he  was  a  colored  man, 
which  made  it  stranger  still,  for  colored  men  had  not 
been  in  the  habit  of  coming  to  his  office  at  all,  much  less 
asking  for  such  an  amount  of  time  on  his  busy  day.  He 
shifted  his  position,  and  finally,  after  swallowing  guiltily, 
the  words  he  started  to  say,  he  added: 

"Be  seated." 

"I  realize  that  you  are  busy,  very  busy,  Mr.  Byron," 
Wyeth  began  rapidly,  not  waiting  for  the  other  to  say 

324 


THE  ARRAIGNMENT  325 

anything  more.  "But  my  business  is  a  matter  of  grave 
importance,  of  the  very  gravest  importance.  And  that 
is  why  I  have  called,  and  asked  for  the  amount  of  time 
which  I  am  aware  is  not  customary  for  you  to  grant." 

The  other  said  nothing.  He  knew  of  nothing  to  say; 
but,  somehow,  he  simply  sat  viewing  Sidney  Wyeth  out 
of  curious  eyes — and  waiting.  The  other  unfolded  one 
of  several  papers;  they  were,  the  editor  now  saw,  pre 
vious  issues  of  his  paper.  He  wondered.  He  had  been 
very  careful  to  kill  stories  that  smelled  of  strife  between 
the  races.  ...  He  did  not  conduct  his  paper  with  an 
appeal  to  race  prejudice.  Mr.  Byron  was  proud  of  the 
fact,  too.  Moreover,  while  he  had  doubts  as  to  the 
hurried  evolution  of  the  Negro  race  to  a  place  in  the 
least  equal  to  the  one  of  which  he  was  a  member,  he 
had  always  tried,  when  he  could  conveniently  do  so,  to 
say  a  word  of  kind  encouragement  with  regard  to  the 
colored  people.  Only  that  week,  he  had  run  a  strong 
account  on  the  front  page,  with  regard  to  the  governor's 
visit  to  Tuscola,  at  the  invitation  of  its  principal,  who 
had  extended  it.  The  invitation  came  for  the  purpose 
of  allowing  the  state  government  to  see,  by  a  personal 
inspection,  whether  the  colored  schools  were  entitled  to 
a  portion  of  certain  funds,  the  Federal  government  had 
appropriated  for  the  purpose  of  farm  demonstration  work. 
Following  his  return  to  the  city,  the  governor  had,  with 
out  reservation,  announced  that  the  appropriation  would 
be  so  divided,  as  to  allow  Tuscola  Institute  and  another 
Negro  school,  a  liberal  portion  of  said  funds. 

Steven  Byron  justly  took  some  of  the  credit  for  this, 
and  now  is  it  a  wonder  that  he  held  his  breath,  while  this 
young  Negro,  whom  he  had  never  seen  before,  unfolded 
the  paper  and  finally  began. 

Coming  to  the  side  of  his  desk,  Wyeth  reseated  him 
self,  and,  pointing  to  an  article,  said:  "You  recall  this 
incident?" 

"Yes/'  said  the  editor,  still  wondering. 

"And  this  one  also,"  said  the  other,  with  another  paper 
unfolded  and  spread  before  him. 

"Of  course." 


326  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

And  for  the  next  few  seconds  he  showed  him  others. 
The  other  was  still  wondering,  when  Wyeth  said: 

"Do  you  recall  following  this  particular  Wednes 
day,  when  you  published  this  article  in  regard  to  the 
park  for  colored  people,  the  number  of  teachers  and 
preachers  who  presented  themselves  as  the  commissioner 
had  suggested  and  requested?" 

"Well,  yes.     There  were— 

"Eight,  to  be  exact.  Three  preachers  and  five  teachers/' 

"Yes."     The  other  was  still  curious. 

"Have  you  any  idea  what  number  of  preachers  and 
teachers  you  have  among  the  colored  people  of  this 
city?" 

"Why,  a  great  many,  I  am  sure." 

"Three  hundred  or  more,  according  to  the  directory. 
I  don't  think  they  got  all  that  teach  elsewhere,  and  make 
their  homes  here  during  vacation;  and  I  know  they 
have  not  all  the  preachers,  but  that  is  neither  here  nor 
there. 

"In  regard  to  this  article  about  securing  a  library  for 
the  colored  people.  How  many  visits,  can  you  recall, 
were  paid  you  by  any  of  the  teachers  and  preachers 
following  the  publication  of  it?  And  can  you  recall  how 
many  letters  you  received,  or  anything  else  connected 
with  the  instant?" 

"I  can  quite  well,  I  regret  to  say,"  replied  the  editor; 
"for  the  simple  reason  I  received  no  letters  nor  any 
visits." 

"You  requested,  in  your  paper  of  recent  issue,  and 
which  is  before  you,  that  the  leading  colored  people — and 
of  course  this  includes  the  teachers — should  call  at  your 
office  to  make  arrangement  for  the  coming  lecture  in 
regard  to  the  need  of  Y.  M.  C.  A.'s  for  the  colored  people 
of  the  south.  I  suppose  you  have  been  favored  with 
many  visits?" 

The  other  shook  his  head  sadly,  as  he  replied:  "No 
one  has  called  among  your  people." 

"Very  well.  Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you,  Mr.  Byron, 
that  an  unusual  amount  of  crime  appears  to  be  the 
order  in  this  city?" 


THE  ARRAIGNMENT  327 

"Who  couldn't  realize  it,  that  lived  here  or  knew  of 
the  place  through  the  columns  of  the  papers?" 

"And,  unfortunately,  eighty  per  cent  of  the  murders 
are  committed  by  a  certain  two-fifths  of  our  population. 
That  two-fifths  represents  my  race." 

The  editor  nodded. 

"Then,  in  view  of  what  I  have  just  called  to  your 
attention,  does  it  occur  to  you  that  the  leaders — or  the 
should-be-leaders  of  my  people  of  this  city,  are  indicating, 
by  their  actions,  that  they  care  a  hang  what  becomes  of 
the  race?" 

The  elements  were  beginning  to  clear  now.  The 
editor  said:  "It  certainly  doesn't  appear  so." 

"And  yet  how  many  of  these  people,  in  conversation, 
are  ever  ready,  when  there  is  a  mob  demonstration,  to 
exploit — which  in  itself  is  much  in  order — the  'best' 
people.  And  what  consideration  should  be  shown  them, 
regardless  of  the  ignorance  and  crime  of  the  masses? 
Does  it  not  occur  to  the  casual  observer,  that  a  great 
deal  of  negligence  is  the  order  when  it  comes  to  moral 
uplift,  on  the  part  of  the  leading  Negroes  themselves?" 

"I  cannot  help  but  agree  with  you." 

"Then,  Mr.  Byron,  I  have  prepared  an  article  arraign 
ing  this  element  of  my  race,  that  I  have  brought  with 
me,  and  ask  you  to  examine  it,  with  a  view  to  publication. 
I  beg  you  to  read  the  same  carefully,  and  if  you  feel  you 
would  like  to  run  it,  I  shall  appreciate  it.  And  if  you  do 
not,  I  will  call  tomorrow  and  get  the  same."  Forthwith, 
he  handed  the  editor  the  typewritten  pages  he  had 
prepared  the  night  before,  and,  with  a  bow,  left  the 
office. 

"The  colored  man  that  was  here  yesterday,  Mr.  Byron, 
has  called  again,  and  waits  outside." 

"Show  him  in,  show  him  in  at  once,"  cried  the  editor, 
turning  about,  and  preparing  himself  for  a  conversation. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Wyeth,  after  greetings  had  been 
exchanged,  "you,  of  course,  realize  what  I  am  here  for." 

"And  I  am  certainly  glad  you  called,"  returned  the 
editor,  with  a  serious  face.  "I  have  read  the  article, 


328  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

and  reread  parts  of  it."  He  paused,  and  was  thought 
ful  before  he  went  on,  "and  must  say  that  it  is  certainly 
strong.  Whew!  The  colored  people  are  liable  to  lynch 
you  for  such  an  arraignment,  if  I  know  them  a  little." 

"I  had  considered  all  that  before  I  submitted  it," 
said  the  other,  resignedly. 

"If  a  white  man  wrote  such  an  article  and  brought  it 
to  the  office,  I  would  not,  under  any  consideration, 
publish  it.  But,  since  it  has  been  written  by  a  colored 
man,  well,  that  makes  a  difference."  He  was  silent 
again. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  regarding  Wyeth  keenly, 
"I  thought  over  what  you  wrote  all  last  night.  I  have 
thought  of  it  in  that  way  before,  but  it  would  never  have 
done  to  give  utterance  to  it,  me,  a  white  man.  But, 
take  for  instance"  (he  drew  out  the  manuscript,  and 
turned  to  a  certain  page):  "You  say  here,  that  multi 
tudes  of  these  so-called  leaders  have  accepted  the  work 
and  the  teaching  of  the  wizard  of  Tuscola,  merely  because 
the  white  people  have;  and  that,  in  accepting  him  and 
his  views  for  the  welfare  of  the  race,  it  has  been  merely 
to  be  on  the  popular  side,  because  the  wizard  is  so  much 
so;  but  that  they  have  no  sincerity  whatever  in  the 
words  they  say  about  him."  He  laid  the  sheets  down, 
and,  raising  his  finger,  said:  "How  true  that  is!  Why 
I  know  personally,  scores  that  would  kick  him  for  the 
statements  he  has  made,  if  they  could  do  so.  But,  as 
you  say  further,  they  seek  to  get  into  the  band  wagon, 
at  any  cost.  Now  you  refer,  at  some  length,  to  the 
proposal  to  secure  a  park. 

"It  is  a  positive  fact,  that  the  good  white  people  of 
the  south,  are  made  the  object  of  bitterness  by  the 
northern  people,  on  account  of  something  for  which  they 
cannot  always  be  blamed.  Now,  who  would  believe  at 
the  north,  that  the  white  people  were  willing  and  ready 
to  give  the  colored  people  a  park,  a  place  for  an  outing 
for  the  children;  and  the  colored  people  didn't  want 
it?"  Wyeth  shook  his  head. 

"Nobody!"  declared  the  editor.  "Nobody  in  the 
world,  and  yet  here  is  an  example  in  this  very  town, 


THE  ARRAIGNMENT  329 

which  has  more  murder  and  crime  among  its  black  popula 
tion  than  any  city  in  the  world,  regardless  of  the  size! 
And  your  race;  that  body  of  people,  the  teachers  and 
preachers,  to  whom  we  have  naturally  looked  and  asked 
for  cooperation  in  securing  a  park,  have  simply  ignored 
our  invitation! 

"Now,  in  regard  to  the  library.  Here  is  the  article, 
and  which  I,  with  care,  prepared  myself.  What  good 
has  it  done?  I  have  asked  their  cooperation,  not  their 
money;  but  I  have  been  ignored,  the  same  as  the 
commissioner  was  in  regard  to  the  park.  And  before 
and  since  then,  crime  continues. 

"We  know  the  law-abiding  colored  people  cannot  be 
altogether  responsible,  for  the  crime  of  the  polluted  and 
the  criminal;  but,  Lord!  One  would  not  suppose  that 
they  would  so  utterly  disregard  an  effort  on  our  part  for 
their  civic  welfare. 

"In  the  end,  you  call  attention  to  the  churches  and 
the  condition  of  the  pastors.  It  is  certainly  time  some 
one  is  calling  to  time  ignorance  in  the  ministry.  Frankly, 
I  have  long  been  of  the  opinion  you  advance  in  the 
article,  that  an  educational  requirement  should  become 
a  law  with  regard  to  preachers,  as  well  as  to  men  in 
other  professions.  Think  of  it!  A  profession,  calling  for 
the  highest  general  intelligence,  having  the  lowest  rate 
of  intelligence! 

"And,  again,  this  church  building  bee  has  submerged 
the  Baptist  church,  among  the  colored  people.  How 
can  any  of  them  be  of  any  practical  service,  when  there 
is  one  for  every  one  who  can  say  'Jesus!' 

"You  draw  attention  to  the  inability  of  the  southern 
cities  to  secure  Y.  M.  C.  A.'s,  where  the  great  masses 
of  black  people,  of  course,  live.  Not  a  one  is  in  operation, 
as  they  are  conducted  by  the  whites,  or  by  the  colored 
people  of  the  north.  It  is  easy  to  excuse  the  matter  by 
pleading  poverty.  But,  while  that  is  a  plausible  excuse, 
it  seems  quite  feasible  to  build  great  big  churches  for  a 
certain  few.  They  have  two  churches  in  this  town  that 
would  cost  more  than  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  building,  complete. 
And  yet,  in  Grantville,  and  the  other  town,  and  Attalia, 


330  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

they  are  required  to  raise  only  about  one-third  of  the 
amount  necessary. 

"What,  then,  is  the  cause  of  this  failure?  You  have 
answered  it  in  the  pages  of  this  manuscript. 

"I  am  going  to  publish  it.  And  in  doing  so,  I  am  fore 
warned  that  it  is  going  to  arouse  a  world  of  indignation 
among  your  people,  or  I  miss  my  guess.  But  it  needs  to 
be  done.  Something  should  come  before  them,  to  awaken 
this  sluggishness  with  regard  to  uplift  among  their  own. 
So  you  may  look  for  it — the  entire  article,  on  the  front 
page  of  next  Sunday's  issue.  Good  day!" 

"That  was  sure  a  dirty  deaf  Dr.  Randall  and  Dr.  Bard 
handed  Tempest,  wasn't  it?"  remarked  L.  Jones,  editor 
and  owner  of  the  Effingham  Reporter,  colored,  to  his 
assistant. 

"I  don't  fully  understand.  What  was  it?  I  hear  that 
Wyeth  bet,  or  rather,  made  a  bet  with  Dr.  Bard  about 
something,"  said  the  other,  attentively. 

"Made  a  bet  with  Bard  and  beat  him  a  mile5  and 
Bard,  through  his  friendship  with  Randall,  who  has  had  it 
in  for  Wyeth  since  he  came  here,  over  a  bet  that  Wyeth 
won  from  him,  hedged  on  it  the  dirtiest  you  can  imagine." 

"Tell  me  in  detail  about  it,"  requested  the  other.  At 
that  moment,  a  private  detective  entered  the  office,  and, 
upon  overhearing  the  conversation,  said: 

"I  can  tell  you  all  about  it,  because  I  was  there  when 
the  bet  was  made. 

"It  was  like  this,  or  came  about  in  this  way:  Down 
at  the  drug  store,  Wyeth  has  had  the  nerve—I  guess 
that  is  how  you  can  place  it,  since  the  bunch,  including 
Bard  and  Randall — especially  Randall,  don't  appear  to 
appreciate  that  any  one  knows  anything  but  themselves. 
At  least,  they  have  been  this  way  in  regard  to  that  fellow 
Wyeth.  So  an  argument  came  about  that  Wyeth  got 
into.  He  quoted  an  editorial  in  regard  to  the  prosperity 
of  California,  and  mentioned  that  California  had  more 
automobiles,  in  proportion  to  population,  than  any  state 
in  the  union.  Randall  had  no  reason  to  take  exception 
to  this,  further  than  he  was  so  anxious  to  put  this  Wyeth 


THE  ARRAIGNMENT  331 

in  the  wrong.  He  started  an  argument,  but,  of  course, 
he  had  his  dose  last  summer  and  knew — if  he  would  have 
admitted  it — that  Wyeth  was  not  arguing  on  something 
he  didn't  know.  But  Bard,  who  accepts  Randall  as  the 
man  who  knows  everything,  and  who  has  argued  so 
much  that  he  would  try  to  down  anybody  for  the  sake 
of  it,  was  regardless  as  to  the  merit.  Bard  took  excep 
tion.  Those  fellows  cannot  appreciate  anybody's  know 
ing  anything,  unless  he  is  a  doctor.  So,  in  the  course 
of  the  argument,  Bard  offered  to  bet  Wyeth  five  dollars, 
that  the  state  of  Iowa  had  more  automobiles  than  Cali 
fornia,  in  proportion  to  its  population.  Wyeth  called 
him,  and  they  put  up  the  money. 

"I  heard  Bard  explaining  to  one  of  their  friends,  that 
Iowa  had  so  many  automobiles;  but  was  away  down 
when  it  came  to  population.  Wyeth  overheard  him,  and 
agreed  that  Iowa  did  have  lots  of  machines,  but  that  he 
was  wrong  in  regard  to  its  being  away  down  in  popula 
tion.  That,  in  fact,  Iowa  had  almost  as  many  people  as 
California.  The  crowd  ridiculed  such  an  idea,  and  cited 
the  big  cities  of  California,  as  an  evidence  of  the  fact. 
'There  is  no  call  for  argument  when  the  same  is  down 
in  black  and  white.  Look  it  up  in  the  census,'  Wyeth 
declared.  Bard  colored,  while  Randall  fished  around  in 
his  belongings,  and  found  a  book  containing  the  last 
government  census  report.  Now,  what  do  you  think  of 
a  bunch  that  are  always  arguing,  and  not  one  of  them 
knew  the  population  of  either  of  those  great  states. 
Not  a  one,  and  most  of  them  graduated  from  college. 
Which  showed  that  they  have  not  studied  what  is  around 
them,  while  Wyeth  had. 

"The  report  they  found,  had  Iowa's  population  for 
fifteen  years  before.  'Wrong,'  said  Wyeth  calmly. 
'Well,  here  it  is  in  black  and  white,'  they  all  cried  at 
once.  'But  it's  wrong,  I  say/  declared  Wyeth.  'You 
can't  convince  Tempest  on  anything,'  declared  Randall 
disgustedly.  'You  cannot  convince  me  that  Iowa  has 
not  increased  in  population  in  fifteen  years.  The  census 
you  are  poring  over  there,  is  fifteen  years  old.'  They 
were  taken  aback.  They  looked  at  the  top  of  the  page 


332  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

and  saw  they  were  all  wrong  again.  Not  a  word  did  they 
say.  No,  they  wouldn't  admit  in  words  to  him,  that  they 
were  wrong  when  it  was  before  them.  Wyeth  called  the 
population,  and  when  they  looked  just  to  the  side,  there 
it  was.  It  was  the  same  with  California.  And  still,  not 
one  of  that  bunch  said:  'By  jove!  He's  right/  No, 
but  they  all  knew  then  that  he  had  won  that  bet.  And 
Dr.  Bard  was  sick.  Just  sick,  while  Randall  was  sore 
with  himself. 

"Now  here  is  how  they  hedged  and  kept  from  paying 
it:  Wyeth  wrote  to  two  of  the  biggest  motor  magazines, 
and  to  the  department  of  commerce.  The  department  of 
commerce  wrote  back  that  the  information  he  required, 
could  be  gotten  by  consulting  the  magazine  he  had 
written  to,  and  stated  what  issues  gave  it.  Wyeth 
brought  the  issues  and  the  letters.  They  then  claimed 
that  they  would  accept  the  information  from  the  secre 
taries  of  the  states  only.  He  wrote  to  these  people,  and, 
strange  to  say,  they  did  not  answer.  And  that  was  how 
they  hedged.  There  was  only  one  of  the  bunch  that 
frequents  the  place  regularly,  who  was  man  enough  to 
tell  them  how  cheap  it  was,  and  that  was  Dr.  Landrum. 
He  purchased  Wyeth's  book  and  read  it,  and  told  Wyeth 
that  he  had  done  finely  for  a  beginner;  Randall  has  had 
more  criticism  to  offer  upon  it  than  any  one  else,  but 
would  not,  of  course,  honor  Wyeth  by  buying  one." 

"  I  guess  he  more  than  paid  for  one,  from  what  I  have 
heard,"  laughed  Jones,  and  related  the  incident  of  the 
bet,  which  had  become  known  about  town. 

"Well/'  said  the  detective,  "they  are  giving  him  the 
laugh  down  there  now,  about  how  Randall  called  him 
on  his  criticisms." 

"I  heard  about  that,  too,"  said  Jones.  "But  you  take 
it  from  me.  That  fellow  is  going  to  make  a  fool  of  those 
fellows  yet.  The  man  has  something  up  his  sleeve 
behind  all  this  criticism  he  is  accused  of,  and  I  am  looking 
for  him  to  do  something.  I  don't  know  what  it  will  be; 
but  I  feel  in  my  bones,  that  it  will  be  something  that 
we  will  all  know  about." 

"I  agree  with  you,"  said  the  detective.    "That  fellow 


THE  ARRAIGNMENT  333 

has  no  college  education  like  Randall  and  Bard,  and 
others,  that  feel  they  are  the  only  fish  in  the  pond; 
but  he  is  a  walking  encyclopedia  when  it  comes  to  every 
day  facts  about  our  country  and  the  people,  and  some 
day  we  are  going  to  hear  from  him  otherwise  than  through 
the  pages  of  his  book.  He  didn't  know  all  about  writing 
when  he  wrote  that;  but  it's  some  book  at  any  rate/' 
and  with  that,  he  rose  and  went  his  way. 

Sunday  was  a  beautiful  day.  The  air  was  calm  and 
soft.  A  crowd  was  on  hand  early  at  Randall's  pharmacy, 
as  was  the  usual  custom  on  Sunday. 

"Well,"  said  Randall  cheerfully,  " today  is  fine. 
Wonder  where  Tempest  is."  And  he  looked  about  at  the 
others,  amusedly.  A  tittering  went  the  rounds. 

"He  appears  to  be  somewhat  scarce  about  these  prem 
ises,  since  you  called  him  some  days  ago,"  said  Bard, 
whereupon  there  was  some  more  tittering. 

"Well,  guess  I'll  look  over  the  paper,  since  our  wise 
friend  isn't  around  to  teach  us  something,"  and,  smoth 
ering  his  glee,  he  uncovered  the  Age-Herald.  Laying  the 
funny  pages  aside,  he  allowed  his  gaze  to  fall  upon  the 
front  page  of  the  general  news  section. 

"What  in  Hell!"    he  exclaimed,  in  the  next  breath. 
"What  is  it,  Ran?"   cried  the  crowd. 

"NEGRO  SAYS  RACE  FACES  DREADFUL  CON 
DITIONS,  DUE  TO  LACK  OF  INTEREST  BY  THEIR 
LEADERS.  SAYS  SELFISHNESS  IS  SO  MUCH  THE 
ORDER  THAT  THERE  IS  NO  INTEREST  WHATEVER 
TOWARD  UPLIFT.  PROFESSIONAL  NEGRO  THE 
WORST." 

"Have  you  read  this?"  cried  Professor  Dawes,  burst 
ing  in  a  few  minutes  later.  "What  do  you  think  of  it?" 
He  was  very  much  excited.  So  were  many  others. 

"That  Negro's  crazy!"  cried  Professor  Ewes,  of  the 
Mater  School.  Professor  Ewes  had  read  Wyeth's  book, 
which  was  loaned  to  him  by  one  of  his  teachers,  who  had 
purchased  it  from  one  of  Wyeth's  agents,  in  two  pay 
ments.  She  had  loaned  it  to  Professor  Ewes,  and  Professor 
Ewes  had,  in  turn,  loaned  it  to  Professor  Dawes,  and 


334  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

Professor  Dawes  had,  in  turn,  loaned  it  to  another 
professor,  and  after  all  three  had  read  it,  it  was  returned 
to  the  original  purchaser,  who  had  seen  the  advertise 
ment,  that  it  was  on  sale  at  the  biggest  white  store  in  the 
south,  and  had  been  inspired  to  subscribe  for  it,  on  that 
account.  When  the  book  was  returned  to  her,  she  had 
read  fifty  odd  pages  and  liked  it,  so  she  told  Miss  Palmer. 
She  further  said,  she  hoped  some  day  to  know  the  young 
man,  who  had  written  such  a  great  story.  And  then 
Miss  Palmer  told  her.  Forthwith,  all  interest  became 
an  argument. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,  that  fellow  is  the  author  of 
the  book?"  she  inquired  of  her  professor. 

"Oh,  yes/'  he  said. 

When  the  agent  called  for  the  remainder  due,  he  was 
handed  the  book,  with  a  statement  that  it  was  positively 
N.  G.  When  the  agent  opened  it,  as  he  was  leaving  the 
rear  of  the  house  of  the  wealthy  white  people,  a  book 
mark  dropped  from  between  pages  fifty  and  fifty-one. 

"Did  you  read  what  he  said  about  the  teachers?"  ex 
claimed  a  supernumerary,  stopping  in  at  the  drug  store, 
and  seeing  everybody  excited  over  the  article.  Jones 
came  in  behind  her. 

"This  is  wrhere  you  come  in  for  a  big  article  in  your 
next  week's  issue,"  said  Randall,  who  didn't  take  any 
Negro  paper,  shoving  the  article  under  the  eyes  of  the 
Negro  editor. 

"I'm  afraid  Mr.  Wyeth  has  said  all  I  would  liked  to 
have  said,"  he  replied  calmly. 

"What!"  several  cried,  in  consternation.  "Do  you 
mean  to  say  that  you  would  have  talked  about  the  best 
people  as  this  man  has!" 

"I  mean  that  I  would  have  tried  to.  I  do  not  consider 
that  I  possess  the  ability  to  arrange  it  as  he  has.  You 
see,  his  range  and  vision  is  beyond  mine,  which  has  been 
confined  to  the  southland.  While  he  has  studied  every 
section  of  the  country  we  call  the  United  States,  and  he 
has,  as  you  will  observe,  written  this  article  in  apprecia 
tion  of  that  point  of  view." 

"But,   great   goodness,   Jones,''   cried   Randall,   very 


THE  ARRAIGNMENT  335 

much  excited,  and  likewise  forgetting  that  he  did  not 
subscribe  for  nor  advertise  in  Jones'  paper,  which  was 
the  best  Negro  paper  in  the  state.  Because,  he  said  to 
everybody  but  Jones  himself,  it  was  N.  G.,  and  didn't 
pay  to  advertise  in  it.  "See  what  he  has  said  abou  tour 
teachers!" 

"I  have  seen  it.    What  of  it?" 

"It's  dreadful— terrible!" 

"About  the  park  and  library,  you  mean?" 

"Sure!" 

"How  can  you  say  that — or  anything  to  the  contrary, 
when  you  know  all  he  has  related  there  is  true?" 

Randall  hesitated  embarrassed  for  a  moment,  then 
sa  d:  "But  he  needn't  have  made  such  an  issue  of  it!" 
'But  it's  true?" 

'Well — yes — of  course  it's  true.     But — 

'And  about  this  crime,  etc.?" 

'Yes— but— " 

'He  shouldn't  have  told  it  where  the  white  people 
can  read  it,"  assisted  Jones,  grimly.  Those  about  became 
quiet  very  quickly,  and  looked  at  each  other.  Jones  saw 
the  lay  of  the  land,  and  took  his  leave. 

"At  last,  at  last!"  he  cried  to  himself,  as  he  went  up 
the  street,  "the  turning  point  has  been  reached.  When 
I  write  again  of  civic  conditions  in  my  paper,  and  show 
up  the  fallacies  among  our  own,  it'll  be  read  and  notice 
taken  of  it." 

All  that  day,  indignation  meetings  denouncing  the 
article  by  Sidney  Wyeth,  was  the  order  among  Effing- 
ham's  black  people.  All  the  week  following,  it  was 
further  denounced.  And  thus  we  come  to  the  end  of 
this  part  of  our  story. 

As  for  Sidney  Wyeth,  he  left  Effingham.  He  left 
shortly  after  writing  the  article,  and  went  to  another 
city.  In  that  other  city,  he  came  back  to  where  he 
started — that  is,  something  had  come  back  to  him  which 
was  his  dream,  when  we  met  him  in  the  beginning  of  our 
story. 


BOOK  III 

CHAPTER  ONE 

"That  Gal's  Crooked!" 

When  Mildred  Latham  left  the  church,  she  hurried  to 
her  room,  greatly  excited.  Without  delay,  she  threw  her 
belongings  together  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  without 
care.  When  she  had  them  tied  and  ready  for  moving, 
she  went  out,  locking  the  door  behind  her,  and  paused 
briefly  to  gaze  up  and  down  the  street.  After  a  moment, 
in  which  she  satisfied  herself  that  neither  were  in  sight, 
she  hurried  down  the  street  to  where  she  knew  a  man 
lived  who  owned  a  dray. 

"Can  you  get  a  trunk  and  other  matter  for  me  at 
once?"  she  inquired,  subduing  her  excitement. 

"I  guess  so.  Sometime  this  afternoon.  What  number, 
Miss,"  he  replied,  regarding  her  with  admiring  eyes.  She 
bit  her  lips  in  vexation. 

"But  I  would  like  it  moved  at  once — right  away,"  she 
said,  quelling  her  excitement  as  best  she  could. 

"Oh,  very  well.  Didn't  know  you  were  in  such  a 
hurry."  He  called  to  a  black  boy  in  the  rear,  and,  after 
instructions,  turned  to  her  and  said: 

"Fo'kes  out,  eh!  He-he!  Where  you  want  it 
dumped?" 

"Oh, why,  yes — oh, — you  may  just  keep  it  here 

until  I  call  for  it,  please."  Without  further  words,  she 
hurried  away.  Down  the  street  she  came  to  a  boy  with 
a  push  cart,  directed  him  to  the  address,  let  him  in,  saw 
to  the  loading  of  her  luggage,  and,  when  this  was  com 
pleted,  slipped  quietly  out  behind  him.  When  a  few 
doors  away,  she  paused  long  enough  to  gaze  longingly 
in  the  direction  of  the  number  she  had  just  left.  And 
then,  after  a  smothered  sob,  she  caught  a  car  that  took 

336 


"THAT  GAL'S  CROOKED"  337 

her  miles  to  another  side  of  town,  and  where  the  houses 
were  recently  built  near  a  new  extension  of  the  car 
tracks. 

Two  hours  later,  she  had  succeeded  in  getting  a  room 
from  a  woman  who  had  a  daughter  about  her  age.  She 
would  get  her  meals  at  a  small  restaurant  nearby,  until 
she  could  arrange  to  cook  them  in  her  room,  or,  maybe, 
she  might  be  allowed  to  cook  them  in  the  kitchen,  on  the 
stove  of  the  family.  She  didn't  request  that  privilege 
this  day,  for  she  was  too  greatly  excited  to  say  more 
than  she  had  to. 

"It's  terrible,"  she  moaned  silently,  when  alone  in  the 
room  she  had  secured.  "I  would  not  have  left  them 
like  this  for  anything  in  the  world;  but  I  could  never 
stay  there  and  take  the  risk.  I  could  never  look  in  their 
faces  again.  .  .  .  But,  oh,  how  I  dislike  to  be  away  from 
them!  It  is  almost  the  only  real  home  I  ever  knew,  and 
the  only  ones  who  ever  really  loved  me — but  Sidney.  .  .  . 
I  must  not  think  of  him,  I  must  forget.  But  can  I? 
That  is  what  has  worried  me  these  months.  I  can  never 
forget  how  he  looked  at  me  that  day;  that  day  when  he 
would  have  spoken.  .  .  . 

"And  then  he  came.  .  .  That  night — but  that  was  the 
end,  the  end  of  my  dream.  And  yet,  only  yesterday,  I 
don't  know  why,  I  couln't  seem  to  help  it;  but  I  had 
hopes,  dear  hopes — but  today  -  She  went  to 

sleep  after  a  time,  and  all  the  night  through,  was  asleep 
and  awake  by  turns.  It  seemed  that  morning  would 
never  come;  and  when  it  did  at  last,  she  arose  with 
heavy  eyes. 

She  decided  to  go  for  a  walk,  and  not  canvass  that 
morning.  She  was  glad  now  that  Constance's  work  was 
in  another  part  of  the  city,  and  she  could  at  least  go 
about  hers  without  any  likelihood  of  meeting  her. 

"Did  you  rest  well  last  night?"  inquired  the  lady  of 
the  house,  a  hard-faced  dark  woman,  whose  appearance 
did  not  appeal  to  Mildred  the  night  before,  and  now 
she  was  less  impressed  than  before. 

"Oh,  very  well,  thank  you,"  she  replied  quickly.  So 
much  so  that  the  other  looked  at  her  keenly,  and  when 

22 


338  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

Mildred  saw  her  eyes  now,  she  detected  an  air  of  suspicion 
therein.  She  flinched  perceptibly.  The  other  saw  this, 
and  was  more  suspicious  still. 

"You  seem  worried,  nervous/'  said  the  other,  with 
feigned  kindness ;  but  even  in  the  tone,  could  be  discerned 
a  mockery. 

"I  never  sleep  well  when  I  change  rooms  and  sleep  in 
a  new  bed,"  said  Mildred,  calmly.  The  other  nodded. 

"This  is  my  daughter,"  the  other  announced,  as  a 
tired  looking  black  girl  came  forward.  Mildred  accepted 
the  introduction  with  forced  courtesy,  and  only  returned 
the  greeting.  The  other  did  likewise,  while  her  mother, 
appearing  to  wish  to  tantalize  the  feelings  of  her  roomer, 
said: 

"You  and  she  can  be  partners.  You  must  take  her, 
Myrtle,  around  to  see  your  friends/'  She  now  turned  to 
Mildred  and  said:  "Myrtle  has  many  admirers,  so  you 
and  she  can  go  out  anytime  and  turn  on  a  'stunt.'  ' 
She  smiled  a  dry  hard  smile,  that  almost  made  Mildred 
shudder.  She  made  an  excuse,  and  hurried  into  the 
street,  preferring  the  outside  air  to  the  evil  atmosphere 
she  felt  within. 

"That  gal's  crooked,"  said  the  black  woman  to  her 
daughter,  who  had  just  come  in  that  morning. 

"How  do  you  know?"   said  the  other  coldly. 

"How  do  I  know!"  she  repeated  derisively.  "Do 
you  suppose  I  have  been  in  this  town  and  seen  a  thousand 
gals  with  her  sweet  face,  and  not  know  that  she  ain'  got 
a  white  man — maybe  two  or  three — on  her  string." 

"You're  crooked — so  crooked  yourself,  Ma,  that  you 
see  everybody  else  the  same  way,"  said  the  other,  sinking 
into  a  chair  and  closing  her  eyes. 

"I've  always  tried  to  make  you  straight,  and  you 
know  that,"  her  mother  retorted  grimly. 

"A  crooked  mother  can't  raise  a  straight  daughter. 
It's  up  to  the  daughter — and  I've  failed."  A  moment 
later,  she  was  snoring  loudly.  The  other  regarded  her 
now,  with  a  pang  in  her  evil  heart.  It  always  made  her 
sad  to  see  her  only  daughter  like  that.  She  had  fostered 
hopes,  while  this  one  was  growing  up,  that  she  would 


"THAT  GAL'S  CROOKED"  339 

be  a  lady;  she  had  sent  her  to  school  with  the  funds 
she  got  in  any  way  she  could;  but  heredity  was  too 
strong.  They  wouldn't  have  the  girl  after  six  months, 
at  the  boarding  school  she  attended  in  Grantville.  No, 
they  expelled  her  with  an  emphatic  letter,  that  she 
should  not  return  the  following  season.  She  swore  when 
she  read  the  letter  from  the  president,  and  forthwith 
sent  her  to  another.  The  offense  was  repeated.  She 
sent  her  then  to  a  catholic  convent.  But  in  some  way 
she  escaped  from  this,  and  when  her  mother  saw  her 
two  months  later,  she  was  living  in  adultery. 

Mildred  renewed  her  canvass  that  afternoon,  and, 
under  the  spell  of  the  work,  she  was  able,  after  a  time, 
in  part,  to  forget  the  worry  that  possessed  her.  She 
returned  to  her  room,  humming  a  little  song,  much  to 
the  surprise  of  herself.  She  hushed,  however,  when  she 
approached  the  house.  The  face  of  the  black  woman 
seemed  more  cruel  every  time  she  saw  it.  She  wished 
she  had  another  place.  But,  since  she  had  moved  in, 
she  decided  to  make  the  best  of  it. 

All  that  week  she  worked  away  diligently.  She  worked 
to  forget  what  had  frightened  her  away  from  her  friends, 
and  her  success  was  great.  She  placed  the  book  in  scores 
of  homes  through  her  concentrated  efforts,  and  when 
she  returned  at  night,  she  was  invariably  so  much  ex 
hausted,  that  she  retired  early,  and  fell  asleep  the  minute 
she  touched  the  bed,  and  awakened  each  morning,  rested 
and  spurred  on  to  a  greater  effort. 

Sunday  came  again,  and,  having  grown  accustomed  to 
attending  church,  she  knew  it  would  be  a  long  day  for 
her  without  doing  so.  She  inquired  of  the  people  regard 
ing  a  church,  and  was  embarrassed  to  have  the  woman 
remark: 

"Oh,  you  attend  church!  Well,  there's  a  big  Baptist 
church  down  the  street  and  across  fivej|blocks;  while 
there's  a  smaller  one  two  blocks  up." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mildred  so  sweetly,  that  the  other 
looked  after  her  with  open  mouth. 

"I  can't  make  that  gal  out,"  she  said  to  her  daughter, 
as  they  sat  together  at  breakfast. 


340  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"I'm  glad  of  it,"  growled  the  daughter,  without  look 
ing  up. 

"She's  a  puzzle.  Sells  a  book:  but  I  will  never  bring 
myself  to  believe  that  she  doesn't  do  something  else  on 
the  side." 

"Evil  to  him  who  evil  thinks,"  said  her  daughter,  still 
looking  in  her  plate.  "I  think  I  might  possibly  have 
been  something,  Ma,  if  you  hadn't  been  so  evil.  Now 
what  right  have  you  trying  to  trump  up  something 
against  that  girl.  Supposing  she  ain't  straight,  does  that 
give  you  any  call  for  all  time  try  in'  t'  make  her  what 
she  ain'  showed  herself  t'  be?"  Myrtle  was  impatient, 
and  her  mother  had  a  way  of  hushing  up  when  she  was 
in  this  mood. 

"She  c'n  certainly  make  herself  look  good,"  com 
mented  the  black  woman,  as  Mildred  passed  out,  and 
went  down  the  street  in  the  direction  given  to  the  big 
church. 

"Has  got  some  clothes,  too,"  she  commented  further, 
as  the  other  remained  silent.  "She  certainly  knows  how 
t'  have  her  men.  Don't  none  of'm  bother  about  where 
she  lives;  and  'she  goes  t'  church  on  Sunday.'  '  She 
laughed  a  low,  hard  laugh,  but  did  not  look  in  her 
daughter's  direction. 

Mildred  found  the  church.  It  was  indeed  a  large 
structure.  And  a  large  crowd  attended  it.  She  sat  to 
one  side,  where  a  window  was  raised,  and  the  soft  air 
floated  in  above  her.  As  she  caught  the  strains  of  the 
mammoth  pipe  organ,  and  heard  the  music  from  a  score 
or  more  voices  in  the  choir,  she  thought  of  her  friends 
as  never  before,  since  she  left  them.  She  had  told 
Wilson — who  was  so  good — that  some  day  he'd  be  the 
pastor  of  a  big  church.  A  big  church  like  this,  where 
thousands  of  people  attended.  Only  forty  members  com 
prised  his  congregation;  he  was  delighted,  she  recalled, 
when  as  many  as  one  hundred  attended.  And  she  had 
wanted  so  much  to  help  Wilson  Jacobs  and  his  sister  in 
their  great  effort.  As  she  recalled  how  unceremoniously 
she  had  left  them,  and  at  the  very  time  they  needed  her 


"THAT  GAL'S  CROOKED"  341 

more  than  ever,  she  experienced  a  pain  that  made  her 
turn  in  the  pew. 

She  heard  the  pastor  now.  He  was  preaching.  She 
settled  herself  for  a  long  sermon.  That  was  the  kind  the 
Baptists  preached,  she  judged.  Soon  she  found  herself 
listening  to  the  words  that  came  from  his  lips.  He  told 
the  story  of  Damon  and  Pythias.  How  glorious,  she 
thought!  Pythias  was  a  man — and  so  was  Damon. 
They  were  strong  men — with,  what  was  that,  she  was 
thinking  of  it  all  the  time?  Yes,  they  were  strong  men 
with  the  strength  of  their  convictions.  "Amen"  came 
all  about  her.  And  still  the  pastor  was  preaching.  And 
he  was  preaching  a  good  sermon.  She  heard  it  all,  and 
it  concerned  men — and  the  strength  of  their  convictions. 

"To  be  a  Christian,"  she  heard  him  now,  "you  must 
be  strong.  You  must  be  courageous,  and  willing  to 
sacrifice  for  your  brother,  as  was  Damon  for  Pythias. 
There  are  those  who  are  Christians  with  all  the  feeling — on 
Sunday.  Monday,  they  are  like  any  other  sinner.  This 
version  of  Christianity  and  religion,  is  the  reason  Hell  is 
getting  so  many  people  every  day.  Sometimes  when  I 
think  it  over,  I  don't  wonder;  because,  all  my  life,  I 
have  been  constrained  to  observe,  that  too  many  people 
regard  Jesus  as  the  individual,  and  not  as  the  moral. 
It  is  the  moral  of  the  Christ,  his  teachings  and  example, 
that  we  are  to  follow.  We  do  not  know  him,  insofar  as 
the  Christian  sense  is  concerned,  as  an  individual.  But 
it  is  a  fact  that  so  many  of  our  preachers  wax  eloquent, 
and  literally  bring  down  the  heavens,  and,  likewise, 
great  demonstration  from  the  congregation  thereby. 
But,  to  be  a  successful  practitioner,  one  must  be  strong; 
he  must  stand  for  something;  to  be  a  successful  farmer, 
a  man  must  be  practical;  to  be  a  successful  business 
man,  requires  application  and  fortitude;  to  be  a  good 
husband,  and  the  father  of  a  happy  family,  requires 
strength — in  short,  to  be  anything  in  this  life,  requires 
strength!  Therefore,  dear  friends,  fancy,  if  you  can, 
how  a  weak  man  can  be  a  Christian.  For,  to  be  a 
Christian,  requires  the  strength  of  all  things." 

She  was  moved.    Oh,  it  was  a  relief  to  listen  to  a  good 


342  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

sermon!  And  she  was  glad  to  hear  a  Baptist  preacher 
speak  so  forcibly  in  such  terms.  She  was  not  so  very 
well  acquainted  with  this  denomination  and  its  pastors; 
but,  from  her  observation,  she  had  almost  concluded 
that  they  appealed  to  the  emotion,  rather  than  to  strength. 
She  wondered  now,  as  she  saw  him  making  gestures  in 
emphasizing  his  words,  whether  he  had  taken  any  interest 
in  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  She  decided  to  find  out,  if  she  became 
an  attendant  of  this  church. 

When  the  sermon  had  closed,  she  contributed  liberally 
to  the  table,  whereupon  she  was  looked  at  closely  by  the 
man  who  took  collections.  When  she  had  reseated  her 
self,  and  glanced  in  the  direction  of  the  table,  she  saw 
the  man  pointing  her  out  to  the  pastor,  whose  eyes,  for 
a  moment,  rested  upon  her  in  curiosity. 

When  she  was  leaving  the  church  at  the  close  of  the 
services,  someone  touched  her  arm.  She  turned  quickly, 
with  a  pang  of  the  heart,  recalling  with  fright,  having 
been  touched  a  week  before.  She  had  no  need  to  fear, 
however.  It  was  the  man  who  had  taken  collections. 

"The  pastor  would  like  a  word  with  you,  Madam,"  he 
said,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  all  politeness.  She 
blushed,  and  then,  turning,  followed  him  back  into  the 
church,  where  she  came  upon  the  pastor,  standing  among 
several  people. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  advancing  as  soon  as  she  drew  near. 
"And  this  is  the  young  lady  we  observed.  Pardon  me, 
Miss,  but  you  are  a  stranger  among  us.  We  wish  you  to 
feel  welcome  in  our  church.  I  hope  the  service  didn't 
bore  you."  He  was  a  good  man.  Her  ideal  of  a  true 
Christian.  She  replied  with  embarrassment,  and  blushed 
fearfully: 

"Oh,  no,  indeed  not,  Sir!  I  enjoyed  the  service — oh, 
ever  so  much!  And  I  am  delighted  to  be  made  welcome 
here.  I  hope  to  come  to  services  very  often — every 
Sunday.  I  think  you  preached  a  wonderful  sermon!" 
She  paused  now,  too  embarrassed  to  go  on.  He  saw  it, 
and  made  haste  to  dispell  it.  Introductions  followed, 
and  invitations  were  the  order. 


"THAT  GAL'S  CROOKED "  343 

It  was  over  now,  and  she  was  happy.  At  that  moment, 
she  felt  at  peace  with  the  world.  And  this  included  the 
evil  black  woman  with  whom  she  roomed,  and  who 
didn't  attend  church.  She  grasped  the  hands  that  now 
sought  hers,  and  murmured  kind  words.  Then  she 
turned,  and  before  her  stood  the  man  with  the  scar. 
She  uttered  a  low  cry,  and  the  next  moment,  fell  prone 
upon  her  face,  in  a  dead  faint. 


CHAPTER  TWO 

"It  Was  In  That  Church  Last  Sunday!" 

The  Sunday  following  Mildred's  departure  was  a  sad 
one  in  the  Jacobs'  household.  Since  she  came  to  it 
months  before,  Sunday  had  always  been  distinguished 
from  other  days.  It  was  then  that  all  talked  and  smiled, 
and  indulged  at  length  in  other  pastimes  that  make 
home  happy.  And  that  is  why  today  was  the  saddest 
day  they — Constance  and  her  brother — felt  they  had 
ever  experienced.  Neither  could  keep  their  gaze  from 
wandering  to  the  empty  chair,  and  down  in  the  hearts  of 
each  was  a  constant  cry,  though  both  surpressed  it  with 
a  mighty  effort:  "Where  is  she  today?" 

It  was  Wilson  who  broke  the  silence.  Was  it  perhaps 
the  one  woman  who  had  filled  that  empty  chair  only 
last  Sunday,  gay,  cheerful,  happy  and  hopeful?  Wilson 
Jacobs  felt  as  though  he  should  choke.  Constance  saw 
his  emotion  'ere  he  spoke,  and  experienced  a  choking 
sensation  also.  She  hadn't  become  reconciled  to  the 
absence,  and  all  the  week  through,  she  had  been  like 
one  in  a  trance. 

"Can  we  ever  give  Mildred  up,  Constance?"  Con 
stance  did  not  reply.  She  did  not  raise  her  head  for 
fear  he  might  happen  to  see  her  eyes.  But  after  a  time, 
she  could  hold  back  the  tears  no  longer.  All  at  once 
they  came  in  a  flood,  and  her  whole  being  gave  up  to 
convulsive  sobs. 

"There,  there,  dear,"  he  cried,  rising  and  coming 
hurriedly  around  to  where  she  sat.  Whereupon  she 
became  worse.  He  raised  her  to  a  standing  posture,  and 
took  her  affectionately  in  his  arms,  but  the  weeping  went 
on  unchecked.  He  held  her  and  stroked  her  hair  with 
his  hand,  but  said  nothing.  He  could  not,  for  he  was 
too  overcome  himself.  By  and  by,  he  knew  it  would 

344 


"IT  WAS  IN  CHURCH  LAST  SUNDAY"     345 

pass,  and  then  they  would  speak  of  her  in  the  terms  they 
had  known  her.  She  was  a  good  girl. 

"Oh,  Wilson,  I  will  never  get  over  it — never,  never, 
never!"  Constance  moaned  and  gripped  him  con 
vulsively.  "Just  think  of  it,  too,  and  when  we  were 
beginning  to  realize  how  much  she  was  to  both  of  us. 
And  just  think  how  she  acted  about  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.! 
Went  to  the  bank  and  drew  all  the  money  she  had  saved 
this  summer,  walking  by  day  in  the  sun  to  sell  the  book, 
and  gave  it,  every  dollar  of  it,  to  the  cause  of  our  people!" 
She  cried  harder  now  than  ever.  He  drew  her  closer, 
and  as  he  did  so,  one  tear  dropped  from  his  eye  upon 
her  hair.  She  never  felt  it,  and  he  would  not  have  had 
her  know  for  anything.  He  was  a  strong  man,  and  had 
ever  kept  from  tears. 

"If  we  could  only  do  something,  only  help  a  little," 
he  said  now,  in  a  constrained  voice.  "I  would  give  the 
rest  of  my  life  to  the  cause  of  that  girl,"  he  said,  with 
words  that  spelled  of  fire.  "Whatever  this  lurking  evil 
is  that  has  driven  her  from  the  protection  of  those  who 
love  her,  it  was  in  that  church  last  Sunday!"  He  paused 
now,  and  while  he  stood  silent,  his  sister  released  herself, 
looking  at  him  for  a  moment  sympathetically,  and  then 
sank  again  into  the  chair. 

Their  breakfast  had  been  neglected,  forgotten,  and  was 
growing  cold.  "Come,  Wilson,"  she  called  softly,  and 
pointed  to  his  plate.  He  heard  her  and  obeyed.  They 
ate  in  absolute  silence,  automatically  putting  from  their 
minds  the  emotion  that  had  possessed  them. 

And  even  as  he  ate  the  food,  with  the  strength  it 
required  to  force  it  down,  his  mind  played  about  the 
incident  connected  with  her  strange  leaving.  He  tried 
vainly  to  recall  who  was  at  the  church  that  he  did  not 
know.  And  it  occurred  to  him  that  there  were  many. 
Yes.  There  were  many;  then  he  remembered  suddenly 
how  cheered  he  had  been,  when  he  saw  his  little  church 
filled  to  its  capacity.  He  recalled  with  a  pang,  that,  as 
he  stood  at  the  rostrum,  Mildred  had  passed,  and,  upon 
seeing  him,  had  glanced  at  the  congregation  that  had 
gathered,  and  then  back  at  him  and  smiled.  He  con- 


346  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

tinued  his  meal,  but  he  knew  he  could  never  forget  that 
smile. 

Mildred  Latham  had  wanted  to  help  him.  And  when 
she  saw  his  small  church  filled  with  people  that  day, 
some  there  purposely,  while  others  were  merely  curious, 
she  had,  in  that  smile,  shown  how  glad  she  was.  It  was 
that  unselfishness  about  her,  which  was  evident  in  many 
little  ways,  and  which  had  finally  won  him. 

And  she  had  played  and  sung  that  day  with  all  the 
strength  of  her  body  and  soul.  She  had  struggled  in 
every  way  she  knew  how,  to  help  him  in  his  great  effort. 
She  had  gone  to  the  bank  and  drawn  all  she  had  saved  in 
the  months  he  had  known  her,  as  further  evidence  of  her 
regard  for  this  human  welfare.  She  had  acted,  in  doing 
so,  at  the  most  opportune  time.  With  such  a  sum  from 
an  unknown  girl,  others,  during  the  week,  had  surprised 
even  themselves  by  subscribing  sums  that  made  the 
success  of  his  work  seemed  assured.  And  cash  was  given 
where  it  might  not  have  been  otherwise.  He  knew  his 
people  a  little.  And  when  someone  started  the  ball 
rolling,  by  means  of  patience,  fortitude,  hard  work  and 
application  to  the  task,  others  can  be  found  who  will 
keep  it  going. 

And  why  had  Mildred  Latham  done  this?  Certainly 
she  had  not  done  so  because  she  was  in  love  with  him. 
She  had  never  shown  any  affection  for  him  in  that  way. 
She  had  been  interested  in  him,  because  she  felt  that  he 
was  sincere  in  his  effort  to  help  his  fellow  men.  And  she 
had  given  the  sum  to  the  proposed  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  because 
she  was  interested  in  humanity,  and  that  was  her  mite 
to  prove  it.  ... 

And  on  the  heels  of  this,  she  had — almost  in  the  same 
moment,  been  driven  from  the  place  she  had  appreciated 
as  home.  .  .  .  Who  was  this  beast,  for  positively  he  was 
a  beast.  .  .  .  When  he  got  to  a  man  in  the  case,  he  could 
never  go  further.  For,  think  as  he  might,  he  could  not, 
in  some  way,  connect  her  with  a  man.  A  man  it  might 
be;  but  he  felt  positive  she  had  no  relation  with  anyone. 
And  yet,  what  was  it?  Just  something,  and  after  that, 
all  was  blank. 


"IT  WAS  IN  CHURCH  LAST  SUNDAY"     347 

They  had  finished  their  meal  now.  And  he  rose  and 
strolled  out  upon  the  porch.  He  drew  a  cigar  and, 
lighting  it,  started  to  smoke.  It  was  a  beautiful  morning, 
and  one  to  make  even  the  sorrowful  happy.  But  Wilson 
Jacobs  was  not  happy.  He  gave  up  to  the  delight  of  the 
moment,  and  for  a  time,  he  forgot  the  harrowing  sorrows. 

The  trees  that  lined  the  street  were  heavy  with  foliage, 
and  gave  forth  the  sound  of  many  song  birds;  while  a 
soft  wind  made  the  leaves  rustle  ever  so  little. 

Presently,  a  man  came  down  the  street.  On  he  came 
until  he  was  even  with  the  house,  and  then,  for  a  brief 
spell,  he  paused  at  the  gate.  Until  then,  he  had  ap 
parently  not  observed  the  man  sitting  on  the  porch. 
He  glanced  up  and  saw  him.  Then,  with  something 
akin  to  an  air  of  guilt,  the  stranger  passed  on,  and,  as 
he  did  so,  Wilson  gave  a  start.  His  thoughts  flew  back 
over  the  past,  with  electric  rapidity.  Where  had  he 
seen  that  man  before?  "Where,  where,  where?"  His 
thoughts  were  fairly  alive.  His  lips  grasped  the  cigar  so 
tightly,  that  the  lighted  end  fell  to  the  floor,  for  he  had 
bitten  it  in  two,  in  his  excitement.  He  kicked  it  from 
him  with  impatience,  while  he  ransacked  his  brains  in 
deep  thought.  "Where,  where,  where?"  he  cried,  now 
almost  aloud.  And,  strange  as  it  seemed,  in  some  way 
he  connected  this  man  with  the  disappearance  of  Mildred 
Latham.  He  raised  his  hands  to  his  head  to  steady  the 
thumping  there,  which  by  now  had  reached  a  state  of 
violence.  Just  then  the  sexton  rang  the  bell  of  his  church 
next  door.  The  same  broke  forth  upon  the  clear  morning 
air  in  stentorian  tones,  and  floated  beyond,  and  then 
Wilson  Jacobs  sat  up  quickly,  bolt  upright. 

"I  have  it!  /  have  it!"  he  cried  in  a  subdued  voice, 
while  his  very  frame  trembled.  "It  was  at  the  meeting. 
That  man  came  in  late,  I  recall  it  all  now.  He  came  in 
late  and  I  saw  him.  He,  I  recall  now,  appeared  to  have 
no  interest  in  the  service;  but  his  eyes  sought  some 
thing,  and  then  I  caught  him  looking  at  Mildred  with  a 
cunning  expression!"  Why  had  he  not  thought  of  this 
before?  It  was  all  clear  to  him  now,  as  he  arose. 

And  then  it  occurred  to  him  to  follow.    He  tore  into 


348  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

the  house,  and  seizing  his  hat,  hurried  out  and  through 
the  yard,  came  mto  the  street  and  looked  in  the  direction 
which  he  had  seen  the  other  take.  No  one  was  in  sight. 
He  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  hurried  forward  in 
that  direction.  He  presently  came  abreast  of  a  house 
where  people  sat  upon  the  porch.  He  halted  a  moment 
as  they  called  out  his  name  pleasantly,  bidding  him  good 
morning.  He  calmed  himself,  and  after  returning  the 
greeting,  inquired  quite  casually  whether  a  man  had 
passed  that  way  recently,  and  he  gave  a  description 
of  him. 

"No;  but  such  a  man  as  you  describe  came  down  as 
far  as  the  corner  back  there/'  one  of  them  explained, 
"and  turned  in  that  direction,"  and  he  pointed  west. 

"Thank  you,"  he  nodded  calmly,  and  then  retreated 
until  he  came  to  the  place  the  other  had  turned.  He 
stood  for  a  moment,  apparently  lost  in  thought,  while 
the  people  on  the  porch  stared  at  him  carelessly.  A 
moment  later,  he  passed  in  the  direction  the  other  had 
taken. 

But,  while  he  had  been  advised  that  the  other  had 
gone  in  that  direction,  no  one  was  in  sight,  he  now  saw 
with  sinking  heart.  He  walked  for  two  blocks,  making 
inquiries  as  he  went,  but  no  one  had  seen  such  a  man. 
He  was  downcast  for  a  time.  Presently,  he  returned  to 
his  home  in  a  disappointed  mood.  As  he  came  by  the 
church,  the  doors  were  open,  and  his  few  members  were 
filing  scatteringly  in.  He  hurried  into  his  clothes,  and 
a  few  minutes  later,  stood  before  his  congregation  reading 
the  text. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

"Uh!  'es  Got'im  a  Nigga!" 

When  Mildred  awakened,  she  found  herself  stretched 
upon  a  pew,  with  her  head  in  a  woman's  lap,  while  the 
pastor  and  many  others  whom  she  had  met  a  few  minutes 
before,  stood  about  with  anxious  expressions.  Two  ladies 
were  fanning  her  face  vigorously.  She  awoke  with  a 
start,  and  recalled  quickly  the  moment  she  had  fainted. 
She  had  never  done  so  before,  and  had  often  wondered 
how  people  must  feel  when  they  fainted.  She  knew  now; 
but  that  was  not  what  she  thought  of,  when  it  became 
clear  to  her.  The  man  was  her  chief  concern.  She  sat 
up  and  looked  about  her  quickly.  If  she  saw  him,  she 
felt  that  she  must  certainly  lose  consciousness  again. 

He  was  gone.  With  a  sigh,  she  sank  back  into  the 
arms  of  the  woman  for  a  moment.  The  fanning  was  more 
vigorous  now  than  ever.  All  was  quiet  about  her.  She 
did  not  first  understand  it.  Was  it  because  they  were 
afraid  it  might  disturb  her;  or  was  it — had  they  seen — 
and  understood?  She  was  too  weak  just  then  to  speculate 
about  the  situation;  but  she  was  delighted  to  hear 
the  pastor  say,  a  moment  later,  stroking  her  forehead 
kindly: 

"You  feel  better  now,  Miss?" 

She  nodded,  and  felt  now  like  crying.  She  understood 
facial  expressions,  and  they  had  not  seen.  She  was  so 
relieved — for  the  present,  and  did  not  think  then  of  the 
future.  She  had  that  to  worry  over  later,  and  for  this 
moment  at  least,  she  was  relieved.  These  good  people 
hadn't  suspected  the  cause  of  her  swoon.  She  sat  up 
now,  smiled  with  thanks  upon  those  about  her,  and 
wiped  the  cold  perspiration  from  her  forehead.  Some 
one  held  her  hat,  which  they  now  handed  to  her.  She 
placed  it  upon  her  head,  covering  the  mass  of  hair  that 

349 


350  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

many  were  looking  at  a  moment  before,  with  natural 
admiration.  Thanking  them  again  in  a  kind  and  em 
barrassed  manner,  she  turned  and  left  them,  while  they 
followed  to  the  door,  and  went  their  many  ways. 

When  she  got  back  to  her  room,  she  experienced  a 
spell  of  nervousness  when  she  entered.  She  saw  the 
black  woman's  face  for  a  moment,  and  was  again  relieved. 
The  other  had  not  been  there,  so  she  nodded  coldly, 
and  entered  her  room.  She  closed  the  door,  and,  remov 
ing  her  apparel,  got  into  a  kimono  and  threw  herself 
upon  the  bed. 

She  had  no  thoughts  for  a  time,  but  surrendered  her 
self  to  idleness  for  perhaps  a  half  hour,  and  then  her 
mind  began  to  react.  It  took  the  form  of  reminiscence. 
Sidney  Wyeth  came  back  into  her  memory,  and  for  a 
long  time  she  lay  thinking  entirely  of  him. 

It  was  he — and  he  never  knew  what  had  started  her 
on  this  strange  journey.  She  now  recalled — or  tried  to 
recall  why.  And  then  after  a  time  she  knew.  Yes. 
She  loved  Sidney  Wyeth,  and  it  was  that  which  had 
made  the  difference.  But  what  kind  of  love  was  this 
that  had  no  hope?  And  yet  did  she  not  hope? 

As  she  lay  with  the  hot  air  floating  in  upon  her,  she 
gazed  out  into  the  street,  where  a  dozen  or  so  little  black 
boys  played.  She  thought,  with  her  mind  idly  drifting, 
and  she  saw  these  boys  as  men,  in  her  idle  fancy.  They 
gathered  presently  in  a  circle,  and  when  she  watched 
them  in  her  half-conscious,  half-waking  manner  for  a 
few  minutes,  she  saw  they  were  shooting  craps.  Think 
of  it!  These  boys,  ranging  in  years  from  eight  to  twelve. 
And  they  were  already  engaged  in  that  demoralizing 
pastime.  She  trembled  with  sorrow  as  she  watched  the 
game  proceed.  Soon  she  saw  that  an  argument  of  some 
kind  had  come  up.  They  became  very  demonstrative, 
and  while  this  was  going  on,  suddenly,  from  a  remote 
direction,  a  blue-coated  policeman  appeared  upon  the 
scene.  There  was  a  scramble  and  they  flew  in  many 
directions.  All  escaped,  with  the  exception  of  one.  He 
was  a  cripple,  and  as  he  tried  to  hobble  away,  the  burly 
cop  swooped  down  upon  him.  He  grasped  him,  without 


"UH!  'ES  GOT  'IM  A  NIGGA!"  351 

regard  for  his  infirmity,  and  disappeared  up  the  street, 
dragging  the  cripple  with  him. 

And  that  was  a  common  occurrence  in  this  city. 
Hundreds  of  young  men — boys — were  started  on  a 
career  of  crime  by  premeditated  arrests.  They  were 
often  placed  in  jail  when  they  were  so  young,  that  it  was 
a  tragedy.  When  they  came  out — for  the  courts  could 
not  bring  themselves  to  sentence  below  a  certain  age— 
they  were  then  pointed  at  as  having  "been  in  jail."  And 
since  they  had  the  name,  they  often  thereafter  diligently 
sought  the  game. 

As  the  policeman  passed  up  the  street  with  the  pitiful 
cripple,  she  rushed  to  the  window  to  look  after  him. 
A  little  boy  stuck  his  head  through  a  broken  fence,  and 
she  heard  him  say,  as  they  went  by:  "Uh!  'es  got  'im 
a  nigga!" 

Mildred  stretched  herself  upon  the  bed  again;  but  her 
thoughts  were  now  of  something  else.  The  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
and  Wilson  Jacobs.  At  this  same  hour  last  Sunday,  she 
had  been  with  him  in  his  effort — his  great  effort.  And 
the  need  of  such  an  effort  had  just  been  demonstrated  a 
few  minutes  before,  almost  beneath  her  very  eyes. 

There  was  no  place  to  go;  no  place,  as  a  rule,  where 
young  men  would  go,  and  this  helped  to  make  it  so  bad. 
Young  men  will  play  pool,  some  of  them,  and  they  will 
seek  some  kind  of  diversion,  other  than  the  church. 
Their  natures  call  for  these  things,  and  she  knew  it. 
Since  freedom,  the  Negro  has  not  been  sufficiently 
practical  to  appreciate  this  point  of  view.  Plenty  of 
churches  are  available,  and  services  are  held  all  day 
Sunday.  And  it  is  easy,  so  easy,  to  say  they  ought  to 
go — everybody  ought  to  go.  But  does  everybody  go? 
Would  everybody  go?  And  the  most  discouraging  part 
of  it  is  that  everybody  does  not  go. 

Some  young  men,  if  there  were  a  clean  place  to  go  and 
indulge  in  the  pastimes  that  are  a  custom  with  many  of 
them,  would  be  glad  to  avail  themselves  of  the  oppor 
tunity.  Yes,  they  would  be  glad.  And,  by  so  doing, 
they  would  perforce  meet  others,  who  were  likewise  seek 
ing  amusement.  Thus  brought  together,  they  would 


352  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

know  and  appreciate  the  good  in  each  other.  And  still 
further,  when  they  would  go  their  many  ways  in  life, 
they  would  naturally  spread  the  gospel  of  good,  or  what 
ever  was  worth  while.  Such  was  the  natural  tendency 
of  environment.  She  had  just  witnessed  such  an  example, 
a  mere  incident  in  the  city's  life.  Those  boys  had  not  all 
known  the  game  when  they  began  to  play.  But  those 
who  did  know  it,  and  had  likewise  learned  it  from  some 
body  else,  had,  of  course,  in  turn  taught  it  to  these 
others,  who  would  in  turn  teach  it  still  to  others,  and 
so  on.  Evil  environment,  bad  influence.  She  had  seen 
these  lurking  evils  in  so  many  places  in  this  city  of  the 
south.  And,  as  the  months  went  by,  they  took  heavy 
toll  in  startling  numbers  among  the  black  children. 

The  effort  of  Wilson  Jacobs  would  not  soon  be  ap 
preciated.  It  would  take  years  for  all  these  young  men 
to  see  and  know  the  real  worth  of  such  an  institution. 
But  it  was  the  duty  of  society,  nevertheless  (and  what 
was  the  church  but  the  center  of  society),  to  put  forward 
all  its  efforts  toward  the  evolution  of  its  members. 

Oh,  some  day  Mildred  Latham  hoped  she  could  do  more. 
Apparently,  for  the  present,  she  had  done  her  best.  But, 
as  to  how  she  could  continue  doing  that  which  she  loved 
better  than  anything  else  to  do,  helping  others,  she  could 
not  now  see  clearly.  She  had  no  plans  whatever  for  the 
future,  as  she  lay  stretched  across  the  bed  this  warm 
afternoon.  She  had  no  thought  of  leaving  the  city,  and 
still,  she  now  knew  that  it  was  only  a  question  of  time 
when  she  would  hear  from  this  man  again.  He  had  said 
nothing,  but  she  had  read  evil  in  his  eyes.  He  would 
strike  sooner  or  later,  of  that  she  was  sure.  But  she 
was  now  resigned  to  the  inevitable.  She  decided  to 
continue  her  work  the  next  day,  and  to  be  brave.  She 
was  away  from  those  whom  she  would  dislike  to  see 
embarrassed.  Maybe  he  might  go  about  his  business,  if 
he  had  any,  and  let  her  alone.  That  was  all  she  asked. 
If  he  spoke  to  her  again,  and  forced  himself  upon  her, 
she  would  ask  him  to  do  so.  She  would  even  beg  him 
not  to  annoy  her.  And  in  the  next  thought,  she  realized 
how  useless  this  would  be. 


"UH!  'ES  GOT  'IM  A  NIGGA!"  353 

She  was  in  the  street  now,  and  was  walking  along. 
This  part  of  the  city  stood  upon  a  considerable  hill,  and 
some  distance  away  ran  the  mighty  river.  Its  muddy 
water  could  be  seen  from  where  she  stood.  In  that 
moment,  she  wanted  to  be  within  its  shining  ripples. 
They  led  to  the  mightier  ocean,  hundreds  of  miles  below. 
Impulsively  she  now  sought  the  river,  and  decided  to 
walk  all  the  way.  She  had  walked  to  it  when  she  had 
stayed  with  her  dear  friends — yes,  very  often.  And  then, 
as  she  thought  of  them,  a  fear  arose  in  her  bosom,  that 
she  might  possibly  meet  them.  That  would  never  do, 
and  she  turned  back.  Oh,  why  could  she  not  meet  them? 
How  much  would  it  have  meant  to  her  to  feel  herself  in 
Constance's  arms;  to  feel  those  kisses  upon  her  cheek, 
and  to  know  that  someone  loved  her.  Yes,  to  see  Wilson, 
and  appreciate  his  great  kindness.  When  these  pleasant 
thoughts  had  spent  themselves,  she  realized  they  could 
never  be  anything  more  to  her.  No.  She  could  go  back  there, 
and  they  would  take  her  in  and  ask  no  questions;  they 
would  be  good  to  her,  and  appreciate  her  desire  to  do 
good;  but  it  would  always  be  different — now.  No. 
Her  life  was  before  her — she  must  work  out  her  own 
destiny.  Whither  would  it  lead?  She  made  no  effort  to 
answer  this  question. 

She  thought  now  of  Wyeth.  She  formed  his  name  with 
her  lips,  and  spoke  it  aloud,  and  was  made  strangely 
happy  and  forgetful  of  that  which  troubled  her,  when 
she  heard  it  pronounced.  She  repeated  it:  "Sidney." 
Oh,  but  to  hear  him  call  to  her  now  as  he  did  that  day! 
The  day  they  danced,  and  she  had  heard  him  stifle  the 
passion;  she  had  seen  his  eyes,  and  they  had  hypnotised 
her;  and,  in  that  moment  of  sweet  insanity,  she  had  not 
resisted  the  kiss  that  she  saw  he  would  imprint.  No. 
And  she  had  never  been  sorry.  Somehow,  that  one 
moment  had  been  her  guiding  star.  She  would  continue 
into  the  future,  and  thus  it  would  always  continue  so. 

She  arrived  at  the  place — not  home.  She  could  never 
call  this  place  home;  but  where  she  had  her  room.  She 
came  around  to  the  rear;  she  did  not  know  why.  And 
then  she  was  sorry  too.  Ranged  about,  without  regard 

23 


354  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

as  to  how  they  sat,  were  men  and  women.  Their  faces 
were  flushed,  while  their  smiles  were  amorous.  She 
almost  choked  as  she  begged  pardon,  and  hurried  around 
to  the  front.  She  had  not  gotten  out  of  reach  of  their 
voices,  when  she  heard  the  men  say:  "Gee!  Some  kid! 
Who  is  she?" 

"Aw,  she's  a  little  nicey,  nicey  girlie,  that  don't  drink, 
nor  smoke,  nor  chew,  nor — anything;  but  goes  t'  church 
on  Sunday,"  the  black  woman  answered,  and  laughed  a 
nasty  laugh. 

She  was  in  her  room  and  was  glad  she  was  shut  away 
from  the  comment.  To  forget  it,  she  busied  herself  with 
the  names  of  her  subscribers,  and  worked  over  the  same 
until  the  sun  had  disappeared  for  the  day,  and  twilight 
was  in  the  air.  She  lit  a  small  lamp,  drew  down  the 
shade,  and,  taking  up  The  Tempest,  read  until  sleepiness 
drove  her  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

"Please  Go!"   She  Cried  Hoarsely 

Weeks  had  passed,  and  Mildred  Latham  had  not  seen 
the  man  since  that  Sunday  at  church.  She  had  become 
an  active  worker  in  the  big  Baptist  church.  She  had 
no  thought  of  becoming  so,  but,  somehow,  she  couldn't 
keep  out  of  it.  Such  a  great  crowd  of  people  attended  it 
each  Sunday!  But  they  are  not  the  select  class  of  people 
she  had  met  at  the  Presbyterian.  They  consisted  of  all 
classes,  and  from  every  walk  in  life.  Among  them, 
she  met  many  of  her  subscribers,  and  was  pleased 
to  be  remembered  by  them.  They  impressed  her,  all  of 
them,  as  being  good  people.  In  fact,  she  could  never 
believe  many  of  them  bad.  They  were  simple  and  too 
free  in  their  thoughts — when  they  had  any.  They  im 
pressed  her,  at  times,  as  so  many  children.  Many  of 
those  who  came  to  the  church  regularly,  did  not,  she  ob 
served,  pay  the  least  attention  to  the  sermon.  For  the 
most  part,  the  large  majority  could  not  even  have 
remembered  the  text. 

And  yet  they  came  every  Sunday  in  great  numbers, 
in  droves  even.  Many  of  them  were  very  beautifully 
dressed.  There  were  no  kinky  heads  among  them, 
albeit,  the  original  had  been  so.  The  most  of  the  hair 
which  was  theirs  by  birth  was  all  straight,  while  the 
acquired  portion  was  beautifully  matched. 

But  the  point  that  reconciled  her,  was  the  fact  that 
the  pastor  was  a  good  man,  and  a  fit  one.  He  preached 
always  the  sermon  that  spoke  of  practical  uplift.  And 
this,  she  judged,  after  a  time,  was  why  he  was  not  liked 
by  all,  and  why  also,  a  great  many  made  not  the  slightest 
effort  to  listen  to  his  sermons. 

"Aw,  Reverend  Castle  don't  preach  this  religion  lak  I 
wants  to  hear  it  preached,"  some  complained. 

355 


356  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"Um — m!"  exploded  others. 

"They  ain'  no  'ligion  no  mo'  'mong  the  people;  they 
is  all  out  fo'  style!"  still  others  said. 

And  thus  it  went.  "Out  for  style,"  was,  in  a  great 
measure,  quite  true;  but  Reverend  Castle's  sermons 
could  easily  be  understood,  if  those  who  attended  made 
any  effort  whatever  to  do  so.  But  they  did  not,  and 
Mildred  could  never  reconcile  herself  to  this. 

Back  in  Cincinnati,  she  recalled  when  she  used  to 
attend  a  certain  theatre.  The  only  reason  colored  people 
were  allowed  to  purchase  admittance,  was  because  they 
did  not  come  in  great  numbers.  There  were  theaters 
where  they  were  denied  entrance,  because  they  made 
such  disgusting  disturbances.  And  it  was  only  because 
they  would  come  and  make  no  effort  to  understand  the 
performance,  unless  it  was  something  below  par,  and 
something  entirely  comic. 

In  this  city,  she  had  attended  a  great  motion  picture 
drama.  It  was  a  play  built  upon  an  incident  in  the 
history  of  the  struggle  for  Christianity — the  effort  to  over 
throw  the  power  of  Caesar.  Above  all,  it  was  a  play  for 
Christians,  which  these  multitudes  professed  very  loudly 
to  be.  And  yet  the  entire  performance  was  disturbed  by 
the  gallery,  where  only  the  black  people  were  allowed  to 
sit.  They  were  assigned  this  portion,  because  so  few 
understood  or  made  any  effort  to  understand  the  play. 
These  were  some  of  the  facts  in  the  lives  of  her  people, 
which  exposed  the  Negro  to  the  contempt  of  the  white 
race. 

Wilson  Jacobs  and  Reverend  Castle  were  preachers  of 
a  new  type,  and  there  were  many  other  such  ministers; 
but  the  masses  continued  to  preach  in  the  old  style, 
regardless  of  the  fact  that  many  had  prepared  themselves 
to  preach  as  these  men  did.  The  old  type  still  continued 
to  work  upon  the  emotional  fibre  of  the  congregation. 
And,  likewise,  in  so  doing,  others  were  disturbed  who 
wished  to  be  taught.  But  the  sermons  of  Reverends 
Jacobs  and  Castle  were  not  disturbed  by  emotional 
demonstrations.  The  people  were,  if  the  truth  be  known, 
inspired  to  higher  ideals  and  a  more  lofty  conception  of 


"PLEASE  GO!"  SHE  CRIED  HOARSELY    357 

life.  Christ  was  pictured  in  such  sermons,  not  as  the 
moralist,  but  in  the  highest  type  of  perfection,  as  an 
incentive  to  noble  conduct. 

Autumn  finally  came  with  its  many  varied  tints,  and 
the  leaves  were  falling.  Jack  Frost  had  placed  his 
feathery  designs  for  the  third  time  upon  the  window 
panes,  and,  in  the  meantime,  the  work  for  social  better 
ment  went  on  apace. 

The  effort  toward  the  securing  of  the  colored  Y.  M.  C. 
A.,  as  it  was  referred  to,  had  proceeded  to  the  extent  that 
it  was  on  everybody's  lips.  Wilson  Jacobs  had  proved 
to  be  a  secretary  of  unusual  efficiency. 

Mildred  kept  herself  informed  of  it  through  the  columns 
of  the  papers,  and  was  always  delighted  to  see  that  sub 
scriptions  were  being  paid  to  an  encouraging  degree; 
but  she  saw  that,  of  the  thirty-five  thousand  dollars  to  be 
raised  by  the  colored  people  of  the  city,  only  six  thousand 
dollars  had  been  paid  in,  after  two  months  campaigning. 
This  was  encouraging,  nevertheless,  for  Grantville,  with 
a  much  more  intelligent  Negro  population,  had  only 
secured  two-thirds  of  this  amount  at  the  end  of  six  months. 
Yet  twenty-nine  thousand  dollars  were  to  be  paid  in. 
This  amount  had  been  over  subscribed,  but,  getting  the 
money  was  a  different  story.  Would  the  black  people  of 
this  town  pay  the  twenty-nine  thousand  dollars  before,  or 
by  the  first  of  the  coming  year?  For,  on  that  day,  the 
time  limit  of  the  Jew's  contribution  would  expire;  also, 
that  from  other  sources;  but  it  was  the  money  from  the 
Jew  philanthropist,  that  figured  most  prominently. 
Frankly,  when  Mildred  saw  it,  she  smothered  her  doubts 
as  to  their  ability  of  obtaining  the  desired  amount. 

Rallies  for  the  purpose  of  raising  money  were  given 
weekly,  but  winter-time  was  approaching,  and  colored 
people  very  often  had  little  set  aside  for  such  a  purpose. 
Then,  already  work  was  shutting  down,  and  had  shut 
down  in  many  cases.  Hard  times  had  been  felt  for  some 
time,  but  were  beginning  to  be  felt  more  so.  Men  by 
the  hundreds  walked  the  streets  in  search  of  employment, 
and  found  instead,  trouble.  Arresting  for  vagrancy  had 


358  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

been  stopped  by  the  order  of  the  court.  Many  preferred 
being  locked  up,  for  they  complained  it  was  so  difficult 
to  secure  bread,  and  even  at  times  an  impossibility; 
whereas,  while  locked  up,  they  could  eat.  And  that 
meant  much. 

Churches  were  now  begging  for  money  to  buy  coal; 
the  annual  interest  on  indebtedness  was  past  due,  and 
Reverend  Castle  did  double  work — the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  and 
his  church. 

And  it  was  about  this  time,  when  one  evening  Mildred 
returned  from  her  work,  and  was  informed  by  the  black 
woman,  that  she  had  a  caller.  She  was  surprised,  and 
looked  it.  The  black  woman  was  too,  and  she  likewise 
looked  it.  Moreover,  she  made  comment.  Mildred  had 
never  had  a  caller  before. 

"A  gentleman,"  said  the  other,  when  the  look  of 
surprise  spread  over  her  face.  The  other  winked  and 
continued:  "Some  guy,  too.  Yes,  swell,"  and  laughed 
in  a  way  which  Mildred  always  disliked  to  hear. 

"Who  was  he?"  she  presently  inquired,  thinking  of 
someone  with  a  growing  fear. 

"Didn't  leave  no  name;  said  you  wouldn't  know  it 
nohow,"  whereupon  her  black  face  took  on  a  look  that 
was  tantalizing.  Mildred  ended  it  by  going  to  her  room. 
She  felt  the  call  would  be  repeated.  And  then  would 
come  the  climax.  She  experienced  a  tired  feeling.  This 
being  sought  by  one  whom  she  did  not  seek,  was  nerve- 
racking;  but  she  steeled  herself  for  the  ordeal.  She 
hoped,  since  she  now  felt  that  he  would  call,  that  he 
would  come  again  that  same  evening,  and  she  would 
have  it  over. 

And  he  did. 

She  was  about  to  retire,  but  not  to  sleep.  For,  as  the 
time  passed,  her  nerve  began  to  break  under  the  strain 
of  waiting,  and  she  was  fatigued. 

"The  gentleman  has  returned,  Miss,"  announced  the 
voice  of  the  black  woman,  as  her  fingers  played  upon 
the  door.  Mildred  opened  it  forthwith,  and — yes,  there 
he  was.  He  pushed  himself  in  without  being  asked,  and, 
being  surprised  at  the  intrusion,  Mildred  let  go  the  knob, 


"PLEASE  GO!"  SHE  CRIED  HOARSELY    359 

whereupon  he  grasped  it,  and  closed  the  door.  He  smiled 
at  her  now;  a  smile  that  lurked,  that  boded  no  good; 
and  she  felt  this,  with  a  heaving  of  the  breast. 

"Haven't  seen  you  for  some  time.  Why  don't  you 
bid  me  welcome?"  he  leered.  Her  eyes  stared  at  him 
coldly,  but  her  bosom  heaved,  nevertheless. 

"Don't  stare  at  me  as  if  I  were  an  iceberg,"  said  the 
other,  with  his  smiles.   "Just  an  old  acquaintance  from"- 
and  he  jerked  his  thumb  in  the  apparent  direction  of  Cin 
cinnati.     He  smiled  a  cruel,  hard  smile,  as  he  did  this, 
dropped  uninvited  into  a  chair  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"Have  one?"  he  invited,  and  then  snickered.  "You 
are  real  cute  now-a-days,  I  observe,"  he  tortured.  "Quite 
a  church  lady,  ha,  ha!"  And  he  gave  up  to  his  mirth 
for  a  few  seconds.  "Quite  cute  with  the  preachers. 
Wilson  Jacobs  is  'bugy'  'bout  you.  Awful  bad  for  you 
t'  get  up  and  steal  away  so  mysteriously."  He  looked 
at  her  now  with  ill  concealed  glee,  and  then  continued: 
"I  didn't  know  you'd  'beat'  it  until  the  next  Sunday; 
when  I  passed  I  didn't  see  you  sitting  on  the  porch  with 
him;  but,  instead,  he  sat  there  alone,  looking  like  the 
devil  before  dawn.  About  the  time  I  saw  him,  he  saw 
me,  and  looked  at  me  as  if  he  had  caught  me  trying  to 
break  in  his  house,  or  something,  so  I  lit  out.  I  'hunched' 
you'd  fled  d'  coup  then,  'n'  as  I  was  'beating'  it  down  the 
street  in  no  slow  gate,  I  see's  a  drayman  a-greasin'  his 
old  hack.  I  had  a  premonition  this  guy,  the  way  he 
regarded  me,  was  likely  to  follow.  So  I  just  slips  into 
this  old  crow's  nest,  and  gets  behind  some-a-his  junk, 
and  gets  int'  conversation  with  him,  and,  sure  enough, 
it  wasn't  three  minutes  before  this  'preacher'  comes 
walking  by  a-lookin'  right  and  left  for  me.  I  laffed  in 
my  sleeve,  and  continued  talking  with  the  old  skate. 
A  bent  key  encountered  my  hand  on  the  ground,  'n'  I 
raised  it  up.  The  old  buzzard  spied  it,  and  cried :  'That's 
a  gal's  key  that  come  down  heah  t'  have  me  move  her  in 
a  hurry  las'  Sunday.  I  oughtta  sent  it  to'r,  but  'lows 
I  ain'  got  the  time.'  Just  lak  a  flash,  I  get's  wise,  so  I 
says  t'  'im:  'Was  she  the  girl  that  stayed  up  at  Jacobs'? 
If  so,  I'll  carry  it  to  her,  since  she's  a'friend  a-mine's.' 


360  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

'By  gad/  he  coughs,  '  V  I'm  the  one  that'll  let  y'  too/ 
and  looked  grateful.  'Where  did  she  move  to?'  I  in 
quired  like  I  didn't  care,  and  then  added:  'Y'  see,  I 
know  the  place  by  sight,  but  I  can't  find  it  's  I'm  turned 
around  down  here  a  little.'  He  puts  me  next,  and  I  beats 
it  up  to  where  youse  's  roostin'  'n'  I  comes  up,  I  see  this 
ole  black  hen  a-workin'  away  with  the  house  all  open, 
'n'  nobody  about,  I  dopes  at  once  that  you,  sweet  little 
girlie,  is  off  some'eres  to  church. 

"You  know  the  rest,"  and  rising  now,  he  came  toward 
her.  "You  ought  t'  be  willin'  t'  give  me  a  kiss  now, 
honey,  for  showing  how  hard  I'm  willin'  to  hustle  for  a 
sight  a  them  eyes."  He  advanced  to  where  she  stood. 
He  smiled  as  he  came,  while  she  recoiled  from  the  sight 
of  him,  and  retreated.  That  appeared  to  please  him,  and 
he  began  a  merry  chase,  dodging  behind  chairs  and 
jumping  up  and  down  playfully.  "Wants  t'  tease,  eh? 
That's  a  way  with  you  little  women,  yu  lak  t'  tease! 
Ah!  That's  what  makes  us  lak  yu'.  'N',  kid,  I  sho' 
does  lak  you.  You  are  a  pretty  little  wench — I  mean 
little  gal,"  he  corrected,  continuing  his  chase. 

"Please  go!"  she  cried  hoarsely.  "I  don't  know  you. 
I  don't  want  to  know  you.  Why  do  you  torment  me!" 
He  only  smiled  now,  and  looked  grim  and  determined, 
as  he  at  last  cornered  her.  Between  them  was  a  chair. 
She  got  behind  it,  and  grasped  the  back  of  it.  He  halted 
on  the  other  side,  and  showed  his  teeth  for  a  full  minute, 
before  he  said  a  word,  or  a  word  was  spoken. 

"Did  you  hear  me!  Why  don't  you  go!  If  you  were  a 
gentleman,  you'd  go!"  His  eyes  narrowed  to  mere  slits, 
and  then  he  suddenly  opened  them  wide. 

"Just  a  kiss,  dearie,  why  all  this  argument.  Some 
times  it  goes  so  far  that  it  spoils  all  the  sweetness.  Just 
allow  me  to  turn  this  chair  until  I  can  be  seated,  and 
then  I  will  draw  you  down,  nicey,  upon  my  knee,  and 
everything  is  0.  K. — see!"  He  now  grasped  the  chair, 
which,  despite  her  efforts  to  hold  it  as  it  was,  he  twisted 
slowly  from  her  grasp.  The  next  minute  he  had 
succeeded,  and  nothing  was  between  them.  He  made 
one  step  in  her  direction,  whereupon  she  recoiled  in  fright. 


"PLEASEIGO!"  SHE  CRIED  HOARSELY    361 

He  caught  her  wrist  with  his  right,  and  then  with  the 
left,  he  proceeded  to  encircle  her  waist.  The  next  moment, 
she  felt  his  hot  breath  in  her  face,  and  then,  with  her 
free  hand,  she  struck  him  a  resounding  smack  full  on 
his  cheek,  with  all  her  strength.  He  released  her  so 
quickly,  that  he  staggered  backward  blindly  for  a  moment. 
The  next  he  had  recovered,  while  his  face  was  colored 
with  the  blood  she  had  brought  to  it.  His  eyes  were 
narrower  now  than  ever,  while  his  voice,  as  he  spoke, 
came  in  gasps. 

"Why,  you  little  wench!  You  little  imp!  You  little 
fourflusher!  You  little  -  -  strike  me,  when  I  have  kept 
my  head  closed  all  this  time,  while  you  sailed  about  here 
with  these  big  niggers,  the  nicest  little  nicey.  Ha! 
Nice — Hell!  How  long  do  you  figure  these  church  people 
would  kite  you  about,  if  I  told  them  what  you  were  back 
in  Cinci'l" 

She  flew  to  the  door  now,  and  jerked  it  wide.  A  bundle 
of  meat  with  clothes  on,  fell  in  with  a  scream.  It  was 
the  black  woman,  and  she  had  heard  all. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

The  Time  Limit 

"What  is  the  total,  Constance?"  her  brother  inquired 
wearily,  as  his  sister  poured  over  a  long  list  of  figures  on 
a  balance  sheet  before  her. 

"In  a  minute,"  she  said  and  continued  her  figuring. 
Presently,  with  a  sigh  she  straightened  up,  and  handed 
him  a  sheet,  showing  a  list  of  names,  at  the  right  of  which 
was  registered  various  amounts. 

"Seven  thousand  six  hundred  fifty-nine  dollars  and 
fifteen  cents,"  he  repeated,  half  aloud.  He  looked  at  his 
sister,  and  saw  in  her  tired  eyes,  failure  staring  them  in 
the  face.  Unless  something  extraordinary  occurred,  the 
chances  of  securing  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  for  the  colored  youth 
of  the  city  was  doomed  to  failure.  He  laid  the  sheet 
down,  and  picked  up  another  piece  of  paper — a  letter. 
He  had  read  it  several  times,  but  now  he  read  it  again. 
He  didn't  want  to  believe  what  was  written  upon  it, 
and  signed  by  the  Jew  philanthrophist.  But  it  was 
before  him  in  plain,  typewritten  words,  and  was  to  this 
effect: 

Mr.  Wilson  Jacobs, 

Secretary  Y.  M.  C.  A. 

MY  DEAR  SIR:  Receipt  of  your  letter  of  December  1,  is  here 
acknowledged.  I  note  carefully  what  you  say  in  regard  to  your 
efforts  in  relation  to  the  securing  of  funds  for  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  for 
the  colored  youth  of  your  city. 

You  are  of  course  aware  that  my  offer,  made  five  years  ago,  in 
which  I  agreed  to  give  the  sum  of  $25,000  to  any  city,  where  an 
additional  sum  of  $75,000  was  forthcoming  from  other  sources. 
The  time  I  made  that  offer  was  five  years  ago  January  of  the  coming 
year.  Therefore,  the  time  will  expire  at  twelve,  December  31, 
this  month. 

With  regard  to  extending  the  time  limit  on  these  gifts,  I  regret 
to  say  that  I  have  made  no  such  provision.  Moreover,  with  the 
present  condition  of  the  financial  outlook,  I  cannot  see  my  way 

362 


THE  TIME  LIMIT  363 

clear  to  dp  so.  However,  all  cities  that  report  favorably  up  to  that 
date,  I  will  fulfill  jmy  agreement. 

Regretting  that  I  cannot  write  you  more  favorably,  but  hoping 
it  will  be  possible  for  you  to  comply  with  my  offer,  I  beg  to  remain, 

Very  truly,  J.  ROSENTHAL. 

He  laid  the  letter  aside.  He  had  known  before  he 
wrote,  what  to  expect,  for  announcements  had  come  from 
Grantville,  that  the  philanthropist  would  not  extend  the 
time  on  his  gifts  for  this  purpose.  Hard  times  had 
spread  over  the  country,  until  not  enough  was  being 
collected  to  maintain  the  cost  of  the  office  and  advertising, 
notwithstanding  the  fact  that  they  secured  it  at  the 
smallest  possible  rate.  Both  were  compelled  to  acknowl 
edge  now  that  a  failure  seemed  imminent.  To  secure  the 
gift  of  the  Jew,  it  was  necessary  for  them  to  raise  still 
more  than  twenty-seven  thousand  dallars. 

Could  he  raise  such  a  sum  in  view  of  prevailing  circum 
stances? 

"Have  you  received  a  decision  from  the  railroad 
president,  who  personally  contributed  five  hundred 
dollars,  Wilson?"  Constance  now  inquired. 

"The  hoped  for  appropriations  for  such  purposes  have 
been  deferred  indefinitely,"  he  replied.  "So  there  is  no 
hope  now,  only  from  the  local  interests,  and  they,  I  fear, 
are  hopeless." 

"And  you  see  no  place  where  such  a  sum  might  be 
raised — in  so  short  a  time?"  she  asked  again,  a  trifle 
nervous. 

"Only  to  go  north,  and  try  to  enlist  the  sympathy  of 
other  philanthropic  persons." 

"And — will — you  go?"  She  looked  at  him  now, 
anxiously. 

"Yes,  I  will  go,"  he  returned. 

"May  God  be  with  us!"  she  sighed,  and  picked  up 
the  afternoon  paper.  She  glanced  over  it,  and  saw  the 
usual  accounts  relating  to  the  shutting  down  of  various 
industrial  concerns,  and,  as  hes  looked  further,  there  were 
the  same  accounts  regarding  the  colored  people.  The 
business  of  fighting  and  stealing  and  getting  drunk  went 
on  more  actively  than  usual,  if  such  were  possible.  She 
laid  it  aside  presently,  and  picked  up  her  subscription 


364  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

list.  She  was  still  selling  the  book,  and  had  a  great 
many  sales  for  the  holiday  trade. 

When  she  paid  the  charges  on  a  consignment  of  books 
a  few  minutes  later,  and  unwrapped  them,  she  thought  of 
her  dear  friend  who  had  brought  her  attention  to  the 
work.  How  much  she  would  have  liked  to  see  her,  she 
did  not  conjecture;  but  she  was  glad  now  she  had  taken 
up  the  work.  The  returns  from  the  sale  of  it,  had  meant 
a  great  deal  to  the  home  in  the  past  months.  Wilson, 
who  usually  made  some  money  otherwise  than  what  he 
received  from  the  church,  which  was  small,  had  been 
unable  to  look  after  or  give  his  time  to  anything  but  the 
work  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  Therefore,  the  money  from 
the  sale  of  the  book  had  come  in  at  an  opportune  time. 

As  for  Mildred,  the  earth  seemed  to  have  swallowed 
her,  insofar  as  they  had  been  able  to  ascertain.  Wilson 
had  worried  to  a  point  where  he  now  looked  ten  years 
older  than  he  had  six  months  before.  Grantville  had 
given  up  in  despair.  Five  thousand  dollars  was  all  they 
had  been  able  to  raise,  and,  therefore,  realized  how 
useless  it  was  to  continue  the  effort,  which  had  sub 
sequently  come  to  an  end.  She  believed  in  her  brother; 
she  was  confident  he  could  raise  the  amount  necessary, 
if  he  had  the  time.  If  the  gift  from  the  Jew  could  have 
been  possible  a  year  hence,  she  was  confident  he  could 
raise  the  balance;  but,  with  less  than  four  weeks,  it 
seemed  hopeless. 

And  yet,  "as  long  as  there  is  life  there  is  hope!"  He 
would  go  north  the  coming  Monday — this  was  Friday — 
and  she  hoped  he  would  be  successful.  Until  he  returned, 
she  would  not  despair.  She  made  preparations  for  his 
departure,  by  packing  his  steamer  trunk,  washed  his 
handkerchiefs,  purchased  many  little  necessities  from  her 
own  purse,  and  placed  them  along  with  the  rest  of  his 
belongings. 

"Will  you  go  to  New  York  or  Chicago?"  she  inquired 
as  they  sat  at  dinner. 

"I  suppose  the  chances  are  better  beyond  New  York. 
I  shall,  of  course,  go  directly  to  New  York,  but  from 
there  I  will  go  into  New  England.  I  have  credentials 


THE  TIME  LIMIT  365 

from  several  well  known  white  people,  as  well  as  letters 
from  the  secretary  of  the  white  Y.  M.  C.  A.  here,  and  at 
Effingham  and  Attalia,  so  I  think  that  part  is  quite 
sufficiently  looked  after." 

When  Reverend  Wilson  Jacobs  had  dined,  he  felt  like 
walking,  and,  drawing  on  a  light  overcoat  and  cap,  he 
strolled  out  into  the  chill  December  night.  The  air  was 
still,  and  the  stars  gleamed  brightly,  as  he  strolled  down 
the  street  in  the  direction  of  the  river.  When  he  had 
gone  three  blocks,  he  decided  to  walk  to  the  river,  and 
look  out  upon  its  water  for  a  spell.  So,  increasing  his 
speed,  he  walked  briskly  in  that  direction. 

To  reach  the  river  by  the  street  he  was  following,  it 
was  necessary  to  pass  through  a  district  of  the  town 
that  had  not  the  best  reputation.  It  was  a  part  of  the 
town,  inhabited  in  former  days  by  denizens  of  the  under 
world,  and  was  interspersed  with  many  halls  and  buildings 
that  had  been  built  for  such  purposes.  Since  liquor  had 
been  voted  out  of  the  state,  and  the  city  likewise,  while 
the  women  had  also  been  forced  to  scatter,  due  to  the 
enforcement  of  the  law  relative  to  their  profession, 
the  neighborhood  had  been  given  over  largely  to  boot 
legging.  Places  operating  under  the  guise  of  soft-drink 
shops,  sold  liquor  as  freely  as  the  saloons  had,  when  they 
operated  in  the  same  places  a  year  ago.  And,  in  this 
district,  holdups  and  other  cases  of  outlawry  were  a 
common  occurrence. 

He  had  arrived,  and  was  passing  leisurely  through  this 
part  of  the  town,  when,  ahead  of  him,  a  figure  crossed 
the  street,  and  entered  one  of  the  dives.  Something 
about  the  swing  of  the  arms,  made  him  recall  that  he  had 
seen  that  person  before.  He  thought  it  over,  as  he  ap 
proached  the  place  the  other  had  entered.  He  had  not 
reached  it,  when  the  other  emerged,  and  made  his  way 
up  the  street  ahead  of  him,  only  a  few  yards.  He  studied 
the  character,  and  when  he  turned  into  another  place  a 
few  doors  up,  he  recalled  where  he  had  seen  him.  It  was 
the  man  who  had  paused  before  his  gate  months  before, 
and  whom  he  had  started  to  follow,  but  who  had  eluded 
him.  He  saw  no  reason  for  paying  him  further  attention 
now,  and  passed  on  to  the  river. 


366  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

He  returned  by  the  same  street,  and  as  he  came  abreast 
of  an  open  door,  he  overheard  voices  and  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  man  again.  He  halted,  and  leaned  beside  the 
door  in  the  shade  of  the  building  a  moment,  out  of  sheer 
curiosity.  The  voices  came  to  his  ears  plainly,  as  he 
stood  there. 

"I  have  reason  to  believe  she  has  money/'  said  one, 
whom  he  surmised  was  that  of  the  man  he  had  seen. 

"If  she  has,  you  have  spoiled  your  chances  of  getting 
hold  of  any  of  it." 

"How  do  you  figure  that  out?"  said  the  other  gruffly. 

"Well,  what  you  should  have  done  was  to  have  com 
municated  with  her  while  she  was  stopping  up  here  with 
that  preacher  and  his  sister,  and  made  her  come  across 
to  keep  you  from  putting  them  next.  Now,  's  I  figure  it 
out,  you  blows  in  on  her  with  your  recognition  game, 
and  frightens  her  out  of  her  wits,  and  she  flies  the  coup. 
And  then,  to  make  matters  worse,  you  trail  her  across 
town  to  where  she  'beats'  it,  and,  instead  of  using  a 
little  diplomacy,  you  blow  in  on  her  and  frighten  her 
away  from  there.  You  played  a  deuce  of  a  game,  you 
did."  The  tone  was  impatient,  and,  from  the  way  the 
other  shifted,  it  was  quite  obvious  that  he  was  not  play 
ing  a  clever  one  either. 

"Well,  she  was  such  a  good  looking  little  wench  that, 
to  be  truthful,  I  lost  my  head  over  her,"  the  other  laughed 
a  low,  hard  laugh,  as  he  said  this. 

"Lost  your  head,  hump!"  growled  another.  "I  can't 
get  into  my  nut,  how  you  blame  nigga's  get  in  your 
ugly  knots,  that  a  gal  that's  got  the  sense  you  say  this 
gal  has,  is  going  to  fall  to  a  cheap  nigga  like  yourself." 
The  voice  showed  that  the  speaker  was  plainly  disgusted. 

"Aw,  old  shine,  I've  had  some  a's  good  looking  a  gals 
as  her  on  my  string,  don't  fool  yourself  'bout  that," 
the  first  speaker  retorted. 

"How  much  sense  did  they  have  in  their  nuts?  None! 
If  they  had,  they'd  a  never  fooled  wit}],  you." 

"Well,  I'm  still  trailing  her.  I  am'  give  up  yet.  I'm 
determined  I'll  bring  her  to  time,  or  I'll  know  the  reason 
why,"  the  other  declared,  determinedly. 


THE  TIME  LIMIT  367 

"Don't  the  ole  cat  down  where  she  was  roosting, 
know  where  she  has  gone?"  inquired  the  other  now. 

"Don't  know  a  thing.  Swears  that  she  don't,  and  I 
b'lieve  her.  She's  a  little  sore  'cause  I  blew  in  and  scared 
her  away.  Funny,  too,  'cause  that  old  woman's  so  crooked 
she  cain'  lay  straight  in  bed.  And,  say,  you  know  Lizzie, 
the  good  looking  black  gal  that  comes  over  to  Dago's 
place,  and  licks  up  so  much  booze?" 

"Who,  Slender  Liz?    Sure!    Why?" 

"That's  her  ma." 

"The  dickens!" 

"Sure  is!" 

"That  beats  the  devil.  I  know  her;  but  I  didn't 
know  until  this  minute  that  Liz  was  her  brat.  And  you 
mean  to  say  this  little  gal  what  you  lost  your  head  about 
and  chased  away,  was  stopping  with  the  old  woman?" 

"That  was  where  she  slapped  me  blind  at." 

"Well,  I'll  be  darned.  I  shouldn't  have  thought  she'd 
have  stayed  around  her  very  long,  when  she  got  next  to 
what  was  going  on." 

"Well,  the  little  wench  was  so  frightened  when  she 
left  this  preacher  up  here,  that  she  didn't  know  where 
she  was  going,  and  she  got  into  the  place  hurriedly,  and 
then  after  she  had  got  tied  up  there,  she  seemed  to  have 
decided  to  stick  it  out  until  she  could  do  better.  Then, 
besides,  the  old  woman  told  me  that  she  don't  think  the 
gal  knew  she  sold  liquor,  and  ran  a  crap  game  every 
Saturday  night.  Her  room  was  so  located  that  the 
gamesters  came  and  went  without  going  near  her  room. 
Then,  the  gal  kept  herself  shut  in  like  a  prisoner,  when 
she  was  around,  besides." 

"I  wish  you  hadn't  spoiled  this  deal.  I  believe  we 
could  have  dug  enough  dough  out  of  her  to  stake  us  into 
a  game,  when  we're  settin'  'roun'  broke  like  we  are  now." 

"I'll  get  her,  just  be  patient.  I  don't  believe  she's 
left  town;  but  I  can't  pull  the  old  woman  for  any  more 
information.  Besides,  she  ain'  got  over  me  frightening 
her  away,  'cause  she  said  the  gal  was  sure  a  fine  roomer, 
and  that  she  is  sorry  now  that  I  found  her  at  all.  These 
old  crooks  can  be  won  over  when  you  come  clean  at  that." 


368  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"Bet  your  life  they  can.  And  when  you  get  the  friend 
ship  of  one  like  that,  they'd  go  through  fire  for  you." 

There  was  a  shuffling  about  now,  as  if  someone  was 
coming  toward  the  door.  Wilson  hurried  away,  and 
walked  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  home. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 
The  Black  Cavalry's  Charge — "Onward  Boys!" 

"Mildred,  my  Mildred,  where  are  you,  dear  heart?" 
said  Wilson  Jacobs,  as  he  hurried  in  the  direction  of  his 
home,  after  he  had  overheard  the  words  of  the  two  men. 
He  was  in  a  turmoil  of  excitement.  He  had  reached  no 
decision  as  to  what  he  would  do,  that  is,  as  to  how  he 
would  find  her;  but  he  was  determined  that  he  would 
search  the  city  to  the  very  doors,  until  he  found  and 
brought  back  that  girl  to  his  home. 

"She  is  being  persecuted,  being  hounded  out  of  her 
life,  as  she  has  been  out  of  the  place  she  called  her  home — 
and  by  those  brutes."  And  he  trembled  with  anger,  as 
he  thought  of  the  dastardly  creatures  who  were  pursuing 
her. 

"  I  could  corner  that  brute  and  make  him  confess  what 
is  behind  this  mystery;  but  then  I  have  overheard  him 
admit  that  she  has  eluded  him;  therefore,  that  would  be 
useless.  Until  he  ascertains  her  whereabouts,  it  would 
be  foolish  even  to  whip  the  cur  for  his  villainy."  One 
thing  he  decided  on  'ere  he  had  gone  far  in  his  reflections, 
and  that  was  to  keep  it  from  his  sister.  It  would  only 
serve  to  upset  her  more,  and  she  was  worried  enough 
already. 

"My  poor,  dear  little  girl;  my  brave  little  girl;  and 
you  must  bear  this  burden  and  sorrow  all  alone,"  he 
murmured  in  a  strained  voice,  as  he  approached  his 
abode.  "Somewhere  in  this  city  she  is  in  fear  tonight, 
in  fear  of  these  dark  creatures.  I  would  give  half  my 
life  to  find  her  this  very  night.  Oh,  that  I  had  some  clue! 
She  would  not  have  me  find  her,  but  that  is  a  matter 
that  I  would  waive  aside.  Her  happiness,  even  her  very 
life,  is  in  danger.  And,  whatever  this  evil  may  be,  I  will 
never  believe,  even  from  her  own  lips,  that  Mildred 

24  369 


370  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

Latham  is  guilty  of  any  act  that  would  not  become  a 
lady.  Somewhere  in  the  past,  she  has,  in  some  way, 
become  involved,  and  this,  in  some  manner,  is  the  occa 
sion  of  the  mystery;  but  I  have  faith  in  her  above  all 
others/'  And  so,  with  this  thought,  he  entered  the 
house  and  his  room,  where  he  walked  for  hours  trying  to 
form  some  plan  of  action. 

"I  will  find  her.  I  must  find  her,"  he  declared,  with 
compressed  lips,  time  and  again;  but,  as  to  how,  no  way 
seemed  clear.  "I  must  leave  Monday  on  the  mission, 
and  I  must  try  to  find  her  before  then.  I  don't  care 
what  it  is — has  been,  and  might  be  in  the  future — I  love 
you,  Mildred,  I  love  you — nothing  else  matters.  I  have 
faith  in  you;  I  believe  in  you  above  all  others;  with 
your  presence,  under  my  protection,  I  feel  I  could  do 
the  things  you  had  faith  I  could  do!"  He  almost  raved 
at  times,  during  the  still  hours  that  followed. 

All  the  kind  words  she  had  said  to  him  in  the  months 
gone  by,  came  back  to  him  as  he  trod  the  floor — thinking, 
thinking,  thinking.  "You  will  succeed;  you  will  become, 
'ere  long,  a  leader  of  men,"  she  had  said  once.  "For  it 
is  you,  courageous,  with  the  strength  of  your  convictions, 
this  race  needs;  and  it  is  you  they  will  eventually  find." 

She  had  said  this  with  all  the  fervor  of  her  soul.  And 
he  had  listened;  he  had  hoped,  and  then  he  had  worked. 
Yes,  Wilson  Jacobs  had  worked  hard  to  raise  those  few 
thousands,  that  would  revert  back  to  the  donors  in  four 
weeks,  if  a  preponderous  sum  was  not  raised  by  mid 
night  of  December  thirty-first.  December  thirty-first, 
midnight?  God,  how  that  sounded  in  his  ears  now. 
The  fateful  night!  One  minute  after  that  hour,  sixty- 
seven  thousand  dollars,  waiting  from  other  sources  than 
the  black  people  of  this  town,  would  be  no  longer  avail 
able.  Seventy-three  thousand  dollars  for  the  future 
moral  welfare  of  thousands  of  young  men  of  this  race 
would  no  longer  be  available,  unless  he,  Wilson  Jacobs, 
could  raise  twenty-seven  thousand  dollars  in  a  day  over 
three  weeks. 

That  was  his  burden. 

If   he,  Wilson  Jacobs,  could  raise  such  an  amount, 


THE  BLACK  CAVALRY'S  CHARGE        371 

innumerable  black  children  yearly,  and  until  the  end  of 
time,  oh,  how  long.  .  .  .  Until  the  end  of  time,  would  be 
saved  and  have  their  chance,  their  great  chance,  to  become 
men!  How  much  they  needed  it,  these  black  youth! 
Only  to  see  any  daily,  every  daily  paper,  would  answer 
this!  And  how  much  would  they  appreciate  it?  Yes, 
how  much  would  they  appreciate  it?  ...  And  yet,  what 
did  that  matter?  .  .  .  Yes,  there  were  plenty  who  would 
say  off-hand,  "They  would  not  know  how  to  appreciate 
it;  they  are  incapable  of  appreciating  it."  .  .  .  But  that 
was  from  those  who  did  not  think  deeply — and,  yes,  the 
majority,  by  far,  of  this  race  to  which  he  belonged,  did 
not  think  deeply.  But  Wilson  Jacobs  did.  He  had  made 
it  a  part  of  his  young  life  to  think  deeply,  and  in  the 
interest  of  those  who  needed  him. 

And  now  they  needed  him.  Oh,  how  much  they  needed 
him,  and  how  much  strength  he  needed  to  raise  twenty- 
seven  thousand  dollars  before  midnight  of  December 
thirty-first! 

"Black  people  do  appreciate  that  which  is  for  their 
good;  but,  be  merciful,  dear  God,  they  know  it  not. 
But  they  will,  and  when  they  do  come  to  know  it,  how 
much  life,  how  much  feeling  and  enthusiasm  they  will 
exert!  And  may  we  not  say  the  same  of  all  of  us!" 

He  had  been  a  very  young  man  when  his  country — yes, 
his  country — regardless  of  the  fact  that  many  of  this 
race  now  said,  with  pent  up  anger,  "This  is  not  our 
country,  it's  the  white  man's  country."  How  much 
bitterness  they  put  into  the  words,  he  could  not  soon 
forget;  but  this  was  his  country,  and  he  proclaimed  it 
as  such,  and  had  enlisted  and  gone  away  to  that  little 
island  to  the  southeast. 

He  was  with  that  cavalry;  that  cavalry  of  black  men. 
And  when  thousands  of  aimless  bullets  poured  upon 
America's  greatest  cavalry  (commanded  by  the  greatest 
American  citizen  since  one  immortal  one,  who  met  his 
death  cruelly,  but  for  this  country),  and  tumbled  them 
from  the  saddles  like  so  many  playthings,  he  would  never 
forget  that  battle  cry,  "Onward  boys!"  And  from 
another  direction,  they  came,  black  men.  Up  a  hill  that 


372  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

was  forbidding  in  the  abruptness  of  its  ascent,  they  went. 
Under  the  heavy  fire  of  the  enemy,  they  did  not  flinch. 

What  they  did  on  that  memorable  day  in  our  modern 
history,  the  world  knows.  And  if  a  part  of  our  citizens 
did  not  appreciate  it  at  this  date,  one  did.  And  he 
proved  it  in  after-years.  So,  when  he  heard  these  poor 
men  of  his  race  now  bemoan  their  fate,  crying  "This  is 
a  white  man's  country.  We  have  none!"  he  sighed,  and 
felt  pity  in  his  heart  for  them. 

After  the  war,  he  had  gone  to  Arizona,  and  spent  one 
summer  there  at  a  ranch  during  his  vacation.  And  this 
ranch  was  among  the  Navajp's.  Dull,  listless,  inert 
creatures  they  were.  They  did  nothing  to  make  this 
country  a  better  place  in  which  to  live,  and  they  had 
never  done  so,  nor  were  they  ever  likely  to.  But,  in 
spite  of  that,  they  are  the  primitive  inhabitants  and 
heroes;  but  not  in  the  best  sense,  could  anyone  live 
among  those  people  three  months  and  conscientiously 
regard  them  as  men.  And  yet  they  were  given  every 
consideration,  while  black  men  were  thrust  aside.  And 
this  was  after  three  hundred  years,  out  of  which  two 
hundred  and  fifty  were  spent  in  developing  that  which 
is  called  Dixie. 

And,  in  spite  of  these  conditions,  Wilson  Jacobs  was 
the  most  optimistic  of  all  men.  He  conscientiously 
believed  that  this  was  a  black  man's  as  well  as  a  white 
man's  country.  Yes,  he  heard  those  others  say:  "This 
is  a  white  man's  country!"  and  they  said  it  very  loudly; 
but  these  same  men  were  the  scions  of  those  who  had 
tried,  at  the  price  of  all  their  wealth  and  blood,  to  divide 
it.  'He  never  let  his  memory  dwell  upon  this.  Other 
black  men  did,  though.  So  much  so,  that  they  made 
themselves  unfit  for  this  new  generation.  What  has 
been  done,  he  always  considered  could  never  be  undone. 
If  prejudice  against  his  people  was  the  custom  here, 
prejudice  against  the  Jew  elsewhere,  was  usual  also. 
"But  it  isn't  right!"  they  would  deplore.  And,  of 
course,  he  could  only  agree  that  it  wasn't.  To  hate  thy 
brother,  is  contrary  to  the  laws  of  Christianity,  under 
which  we  live.  .  .  .  But  the  prejudice  remained  after  all 


THE  BLACK  CAVALRY'S  CHARGE        373 

that  could  be  said.  "It's  growing  worse!"  they  cried. 
"Yes,  it  appears  to  grow  worse,"  he  also  agreed.  "Then, 
what  have  you  to  say? "  And  he  answered:  "Nothing!" 
And  then  asked:  "And  you?"  "Nothing!"  "Then, 
what  are  we  to  do?  Become  examples  of  dull  inertia  by 
grieving  over  it,  or  shall  we  struggle  to  become  men, 
and  through  the  strength  of  our  mind  and  bodies,  make 
this  a  better  place  in  which  to  live,  if  only  for  ourselves? 
For  live,  we  must.  Not  since  the  beginning  of  the  world 
have  ten  million  souls  sunk  into  oblivion."  The  pessimist 
always  departed  at  this  point. 

After  all,  Jacobs  felt  sorry  and  pitied  both — the  ones 
who  bemoaned  their  fate,  and  those  who  boasted. 
Both  were  in  error.  For,  regardless  of  what  was  said,  he 
loved  America,  his  home  and  "a  man's  country"! 

So,  when  college  had  given  Wilson  Jacobs  his  degree, 
he  drifted  about  for  a  year  among  his  people.  He  had 
never  thought  of  the  ministry  as  a  vocation.  And  it 
was  only  when  he  had  seen  his  people  as  they  were — not 
altogether  as  they  ought  to  be,  did  he  appreciate  the  fact 
that  he  might  be  able  to  help  them.  He  had  learned 
while  at  school,  but  more  in  actual  life,  that  Jesus  lived 
and  died  as  a  moral  example.  But  his  people  saw  only 
the  individual. 

So  back  to  school  he  had  gone,  where  he  studied  five 
long  years,  to  fit  himself  for  his  present  calling.  His 
success  was  yet  to  come.  Mildred  Latham  had  said  it 
would  come.  "Oh,  Mildred!  For  you  I  would  go  through 
eternity,"  he  declared  feverishly.  But  only  the  silent 
walls  answered  him. 

After  many  hours,  he  retired.  The  sun  was  shining, 
although  it  was  December,  when  he  heard  Constance 
calling  him  to  breakfast.  How  much  he  would  have 
liked  to  have  said:  "Constance,  Mildred  is  somewhere 
in  this  town,  our  Mildred!  She  is  being  persecuted, 
Constance,  our  Mildred  is  being  persecuted — being 
hounded  out  of  the  sweet  life  we  know  she  lived,  and 
inspired  in  those  about  her!"  And  he  knew  that  Con 
stance  would  say:  "Go  forth,  my  brother,  and  find  her; 
bring  her  back  into  our  home,  that  we  may  love  her  and 


374  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

make  her  our  sister,  for  it  is  as  such  she  was,  and  more, 
these  many  months."  That  was  the  spirit  of  the  Jacobs. 
But  he  kept  his  peace,  and  ate  in  silence. 

Monday  came,  a  cold,  dreary  day.  Snow  fell  all  over 
the  country,  and  Dixie  land,  far  south,  was  white  man 
tled.  Wilson  Jacobs  went  to  the  depot,  for  he  was 
leaving  on  a  great  mission.  Would  he  succeed?  He 
hoped  so;  others  hoped  so;  and  Constance  hoped  so, 
as  well  as  Mildred  Latham. 

But  he  never  knew. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

"Please  Stop — and  Save  Me!" 

"Breakfast  is  ready,  my  dear,"  said  Mother  Jane,  for 
as  such  she  was  known  and  called  by  all  who  knew  her. 
She  was  speaking  to  Mildred  Latham. 

A  moment  later,  Mildred  came  out  of  her  room  and 
seated  herself  at  the  table,  at  the  head  of  which  sat  an 
old  gray-headed  man,  and  at  the  foot  sat  Mother  Jane, 
whose  head  was  white  also. 

"And  did  you  rest  well,  my  dear?"  inquired  Mother 
Jane  of  Mildred,  bestowing  upon  her  a  smile  full  of  kind 
ness  and  tenderness. 

"I  slept  beautifully,"  Mildred  replied  as  kindly,  and 
beamed  upon  the  old  soul  with  all  the  consideration— 
maybe  more — of  her  own  child. 

"And  you  sell  a  book?"  inquired  the  elder  woman, 
after  a  moment. 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  sell  a  book.  A  book  by  a  young  colored 
author." 

"By  a  young  colored  author?  I  do  declare!"  ex 
claimed  the  other,  with  enthusiasm.  "It  is  delightful 
when  I  know  we  have  young  men  who  are  doing  something 
else  besides  making  convicts."  Mother  Jane  was  known 
for  her  wit. 

"What  is  the  text  of  this  story?"   she  inquired  later. 

Mildred  told  her. 

"Delightful,  to  say  the  least."  The  elder  woman  had 
secured  some  learning  in  her  childhood,  and  had  studied 
by  consistent  reading,  until  she  was  well  informed,  and 
used  the  most  perfect  English.  "Went  out  into  the  great 
west.  To  the  Rosebud  Country.  Well,  well.  I  read  all 
about  that  country  when  it  was  opened  to  settlers  some 
years  ago.  I  wanted  my  son  to  go;  but — he  went  else 
where,"  and  she  paused  to  swallow,  while  a  tear  shone 

375 


376  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

in  her  old  eyes.  Mildred  spoke  of  other  things.  The 
other  didn't  say,  but  quick  intuition  told  her  that  son 
had  gone  to  the  chain  gang. 

She  had  found  this  place  two  days  after  the  visit  that 
was  paid  her  by  the  unwelcome  guest.  It  was  far  removed 
from  the  black  woman,  and  she  was  glad  of  it.  And 
yet,  when  she  was  taking  her  leave,  that  apparently  evil 
creature  had  shed  tears  and  begged  her  to  stay,  saying 
that  she  would  not  be  molested  further.  Mildred  felt  a 
human  pity  for  her,  but  she  knew  she  could  not  have 
stayed  on.  The  longer  she  lived,  the  more  she  was 
learning  that  secrets  are  not  good  things  to  share  with 
others,  or  for  others  to  be  in  possession  of,  regardless  of 
their  good  will  thereto.  She  now  knew  that  the  only 
way  she  would  have  people  to  know  these  things,  people 
she  might  chance  to  live  with,  would  be  to  tell  them 
before  she  moved  into  the  house.  To  have  them  find 
out  afterwards,  and  from  others,  would  be,  she  felt,  an 
infringement  upon  their  kindness.  As  for  the  man  who 
had,  with  his  persistency,  driven  her  from  two  places, 
she  hoped  he  would  not  succeed  in  finding  her  in  the 
present. 

The  following  day,  she  went  about  her  work  with  heavy 
heart.  She  felt  she  must  continue  in  the  work  as  long  as 
she  was  in  the  city;  and  besides,  she  had  accumulated 
many  orders  for  the  holiday  trade,  and  could,  with  her 
efforts,  secure  many  others.  But  it  was  not  this  alone 
that  held  her  in  this  city,  it  was  something  else. 

She  was  following  the  effort  of  Wilson  Jacobs  to  secure 
the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  Each  week,  she  carefully  noted  the 
details  in  regard  to  the  same,  and  had  fearfully  observed 
that  it  might  fail.  She  was  aware  of  the  time  limit, 
and  she  was  worried  over  the  lack  of  the  twenty- 
seven  thousand  dollars.  "How  can  he  raise  such  a  large 
sum  in  so  short  a  time?"  she  asked  herself  many  times 
each  day.  And  yet  she  still  hoped  he  would,  even  when 
less  than  four  weeks  were  left  in  which  to  do  so. 

She  had  managed,  by  dint  of  economy  and  hard  work, 
to  accumulate  almost  two  hundred  dollars  since  she  left 
them,  and  this  she  would  give  at  the  right  moment, 


"PLEASE  STOP— AND  SAVE  ME!"    377 

when  she  saw  there  was  any  possible  chance  of  his  succeed 
ing.  She  would  have  to  send  it  anonymously;  but  desire 
for  his  success  was  her  gravest  concern. 

Sunday  came,  and  she  stayed  at  home  for  the  first 
time  since  she  came  to  the  city.  The  sound  of  the  bells 
made  her  feel  terribly  sad  and  lonely.  To  have  heard 
Wilson  Jacobs,  or  Reverend  Castle,  would  have  been  a 
privilege  of  which  she  would  have  been  thankful  to  have 
availed  herself,  but  fear  kept  her  confined  to  her  room 
all  that  day.  She  felt  positive  that  he  would  visit  all 
the  churches  in  search  of  her  that  day,  and  other  Sun 
days.  So,  with  this  pleasure  denied  her,  she  felt  more 
lonely  now  than  she  had  ever  felt  before,  since  coming  to 
the  city. 

She  purchased  a  book,  a  new  novel,  the  evening  before; 
so  in  this  she  concentrated  her  mind  all  that  day.  It  was 
an  unusual  story,  which  made  it  more  interesting.  It 
seemed  that,  in  England,  where  the  plot  lay,  a  postmaster 
was  likely  to  be  removed  through  subtle  influences. 
To  save  the  position  for  him,  because  of  her  love,  his 
wife,  who  was  all  to  him,  made  a  sublime  sacrifice.  It 
came  to  his  attention,  and  in  doing  so,  the  fact  of  her 
past  was  also  revealed.  It  was  a  terrible  book,  to  say 
the  least,  but  between  the  lines  was  a  moral  that  the 
reader  was  compelled  to  appreciate.  In  the  end,  the 
man  was  redeemed  to  her  through  the  church — the 
Baptist  church. 

Two  weeks  passed  without  event.  Her  work  went 
along  nicely,  and  she  succeeded  in  delivering  to  almost 
all  of  her  holiday  customers.  It  was  about  this  time 
that  she  became  deeply  concerned  with  regard  to  the 
possibility  of  securing  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  Wilson  Jacobs 
had  not  returned,  nor  had  any  word  come  from  him,  so 
far  as  the  public  knew,  as  to  whether  he  had  met  with 
success.  But  Mildred  entertained  grave  doubts  regard 
ing  the  matter.  If  he  were  succeeding,  it  was  her  opinion, 
that  some  word  would  be  wired  that  cheer  might  fill  the 
hearts  of  the  anxious  ones  waiting.  She  wished  she 
could  go  to  Constance,  and  comfort  her  during  these 
anxious  days.  That  desire  became  so  uppermost  in  her 


378  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

mind  and  heart,  that  it  was  with  difficulty  she  kept  her 
self  from  rushing  madly  to  the  house,  and  throwing  her 
self  to  the  other's  feet.  She  felt  strangely  guilty.  She 
had  convicted  herself  in  their  eyes,  by  fleeing.  It  couldn't 
be  changed  now.  No,  she  could  not  go  to  Constance, 
as  much  as  she  wanted  to.  And,  as  she  looked  into  it 
deeper,  she  came  to  realize  that  she  could  never  go  to 
Constance  again.  .  .  .  That  was  the  hardest  part  of  it. 
Never  to  go  to  her  again.  Oh,  the  anguish  it  gave  her 
when  this  was  regarded  as  a  reality. 

"Constance,"  she  prayed  on  her  knees  that  night. 
"Constance,  will  you,  can  you  forgive  me;  can  you 
forgive  Mildred?  She  loved  you  and  your  brother,  and 
it  was  because  she  was  weak;  because  she  felt  that  she 
could  never  have  stood  to  see  both  of  you  know — felt  me 
otherwise  than  as  you  knew  me.  Oh,  I  have  suffered, 
Constance;  I  have  died  a  living  death.  Daily  I  long 
for  you;  I  pray  in  the  only  way  I  know  how  that  he, 
your  brother,  whom  I  know  to  be  so  strong,  and  noble 
and  good,  may  succeed  in  this  great  effort;  this  effort 
which  these  others  so  much  need.  Some  day,  oh,  Lord, 
may  it  come  to  pass — though  my  mind  cannot  now  see 
it,  I  hope  to  feel  that  love  again." 

And  then  it  came  to  pass,  the  next  day  she  met  the 
other  upon  the  streets,  He  smiled  upon  her  through  his 
ugly  teeth,  and  in  soothing  words,  offered  greeting.  She 
passed  him  by,  but  knew,  without  looking  back,  that  he 
followed.  She  had  completed  her  work  for  that  day. 
Many  copies  of  his  book  she  had  placed  in  other  hands, 
and  that  night  many  eyes  would  begin  an  acquaintance 
with  those  years  in  the  west.  And  now,  at  her  heels 
followed  her  vendetta.  He  would  follow  her  to  Mother- 
Jane's?  And  then  she  trembled.  She  could  never  allow 
Mother  Jane  to  even  think  she  was  any  other  but  "her 
dear  daughter."  For  it  was  such  Mother  Jane  now 
called  her.  Anywhere  now — but  there. 

She  increased  her  steps,  made  them  faster  in  a  direction 
that  led  to — she  knew  not  where,  nor  cared;  but  any 
where  but  to  Mother  Jane's.  Supper  would  be  awaiting 
her  there  at  six-thirty,  as  it  had  waited  for  her  every  day 


"PLEASE  STOP— AND  SAVE  ME!"         379 

these  past  weeks;  but  Mother  Jane  would  be  disap 
pointed  this  evening.  Mildred  Latham  would  not  see 
Mother  Jane  at  that  hour  today,  and  maybe  she,  Mother 
Jane,  might  never  see  ''her  daughter"  again.  .  .  . 

On  she  went.  Before  her,  over  a  hill,  came  a  car.  She 
could  not  catch  that  one,  but  others  would  come  that 
way  soon.  Maybe  by  the  time  she  arrived  beside  the 
tracks,  another  might  meet  her.  She  hurried.  She 
never  looked  back.  She  was  too  frightened.  But  in 
tuition  told  her  that  he  followed.  She  wished  she  knew 
how  far  he  was  in  the  rear.  Maybe  if  the  car  came 
before  he  arrived,  she  could  elude  him.  Oh,  if  it  would! 
She  was  trotting  now.  She  was  so  near  the  tracks  at 
this  time,  that  they  glistened  like  steel  rays  in  the  dist 
ance.  From  a  direction,  which  was  not  the  way  the 
other  car  had  come,  she  heard  another  car.  It  was 
approaching,  and  now  it  flashed  into  sight. 

The  sun  had  disappeared  long  ago,  and  the  stars  stood 
out  like  a  million  diamonds  in  the  skies  above.  The 
evening  air  was  chill,  and  she  rushed — she  was  running 
now — past  the  houses.  The  car  was  almost  at  the 
crossing.  Would  she  make  it?  She  cried  out  and  waved 
her  hand  frantically.  It  was  going  to  pass  her,  although 
she  had  arrived  at  the  crossing,  and  regarded  it  with  eyes 
that  were  frantic — wild!  "Please  stop,  Mr.  Motorman!" 
she  cried  piteously. 

"Please  stop — and  save  me."  It  tore  by  her,  the 
front  end.  In  the  rear,  she  heard  the  crunch  of  feet 
upon  the  gravel  street.  She  saw  the  side  of  the  car.  It 
dazzled  her.  She  was  lost.  She  could  almost  feel  the 
presence  of  the  other.  One  terrible  moment  she  swayed, 
and  the  next,  the  rear  end  of  the  car  was  before  her. 
Welcome  did  the  inside  seem.  She  must  catch  that  car, 
she  felt — or  die.  A  brass  rail  touched  her  hand.  Like 
electricity,  it  closed  over  it.  She  was  raised  and  then 
felt  her  body  speeding  through  space.  A  cry  from  the 
inside  and  a  "ting,"  then  a  shutting  of  brakes,  and  the 
car  came  to  a  stop. 

"My  God,"  the  conductor  was  saying,  "why  did  she 
grab  that  rail?  This  is  the  only  line  left  with  cars  with 


380  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

the  open  entry.  None  of  the  others  can  be  caught  with 
out  the  consent  of  the  conductor."  She  looked  about 
her.  She  sat  in  the  rear  of  the  car  that  was  now  speeding 
into  the  business  section.  About  her  were  many  anxious 
faces. 

"Why,  oh,  why,"  their  eyes  and  lips  spoke,  as  soon  as 
they  saw  her,  "did  you  take  that  terrible  risk?"  But 
she  did  not  see  their  eyes,  or  hear  their  words — for  her 
eyes  were  looking  for  another.  He  was  not  there. 

And  they  never  knew. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

What  Her  Eyes  Saw 

"Our  daughter  is  late  tonight,  Gabriel,"  said  Mother 
Jane,  coming  from  the  door,  where  she  had  been  many 
times.  "It  is  now  almost  seven,  and  she  has  not  yet 
arrived.  I  am  uneasy.  But  I  will  be  patient.  Maybe 
she  had  to  wait  on  some  of  her  customers.  It  is  so  near 
the  holidays,  that  some  may  have  been  downtown  buying 
presents  for  their  friends,  and  she  is  compelled  to  wait. 
Of  course,  she  has  never  been  late  before,  which  doesn't 
mean  that  she  might  not  be  late  today — but,  oh  well, 
I'll  wait." 

Gabriel,  her  old  husband,  played  with  his  fork  and 
said  nothing.  He  never  said  anything.  He  had  not  said 
anything  since  '65.  The  rebels  at  Fort  Pillar  stopped 
him  from  saying  anything  further,  for  since  then  he  had 
been  speechless. 

"We  will  have  a  big  Christmas  this  year,  Gabriel," 
said  she.  "Mildred's  being  with  us  will  make  a  differ 
ence."  She  was  silent  now,  listening  to  the  fire  that 
cracked  in  the  grate.  Presently  her  eyes  sought  a  place 
at  the  table.  It  was  the  place  Mildred  occupied,  but  she 
was  thinking  of  another.  This  other  had  been  all  to  her, 
for  he  was  her  son.  Tears  came  to  her  eyes  now,  as  she 
thought  of  the  years  gone  by,  and  the  times  she  had 
fixed  that  place  for  him.  Yes,  she  had  fixed  the  plate 
there  for  him  a  thousand  times.  But  he  did  not — had 
not  eaten  from  it  for  many  a  meal  now.  No,  he  ate 
elsewhere.  As  she  looked  at  the  place  today,  strangely 
she  felt  he  would  never  eat  there  again.  And  he  was 
her  only  child.  If  he  failed  to  carry  the  name  beyond 
his  present  circumstances,  then  the  name  of  Gabriel 
Ware  ended  with  her  mute  husband,  who  sat  waiting 
patiently. 

381 


382  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"It  will  be  so  nice,  Gabriel,  to  have  her  with  us  this 
Christmas.  And  she  stays  right  at  home  and  reads  to 
us  both  every  night.  She  is  a  sweet  child,  is  Mildred. 
She  has  been  our  own  daughter  since  she  came  here. 
It  has  been  a  treat  for  me,  because  I  love  so  much  to 
read;  while  you  have  liked  since  '65  to  hear  me;  but 
my  old  eyes  cannot  follow  the  lines  with  the  accuracy 
they  used  to.  No,  the  lines  run  together  so  often  now, 
and  when  they  become  clear  again,  it  is  so  hard  and  tire 
some  to  find  the  place.  But  since  she  came,  with  her 
young  eyes,  her  cheerful  smiles,  her  endless  patience 
with  old  people,  who  at  the  best  are  hard  to  get  along 
with,  I  appreciate  that  things  have  been  so  different/' 

Gabriel  nodded.  They  lived  easily,  these  two.  This 
may  be  a  "white  man's  country,"  but  our  "Uncle" 
took  care  of  Gabriel  and  Mother  Jane  comfortably. 
These  many  years,  he  gave  to  them  many  dollars  at  the 
end  of  every  quarter,  and  he  had  increased  this,  until 
now  Gabriel  received  ninety  dollars  four  times  a  year. 

A  step  sounded  upon  the  porch.  "There  she  is,  God 
bless  her/'  said  Mother  Jane,  and  flew  to  the  door, 
opening  it  wide,  and  then,  alas!  No  Mildred  stood  on 
the  threshold — but  a  man. 

His  teeth  shown,  and  his  hat  in  hand,  he  stood  with 
a  bow,  and  inquired  if  Miss  Mildred  Latham  was  within. 

On  the  main  street  of  the  town,  where  all  cars  find 
their  way,  Mildred  alighted,  and,  crossing  the  street, 
she  waited  for  the  car  that  would  take  her  to  the  suburbs 
which  was  near  where  Mother  Jane  lived. 

When  Gabriel  and  she  had  built  and  settled,  it  was  far 
from  the  town,  and  they  had  not  dreamed,  that  some 
day  before  they  died,  that  their  ten  acres  would  be  sur 
rounded.  But  the  city  grew,  and  they  had  sold  the  ten 
acres  long  since,  in  lots  for  big  prices.  They  had  money, 
she  now  knew,  a  part  of  which  they  had  received  for  the 
lots,  and  they  owned  other  houses.  But  a  part  of  what 
they  had  was  gone.  It  had  been  invested  in  a  shoe 
store,  incorporated  and  conducted  by  colored  people. 
They  knew  not  how  colored  people  act  in  such  capacity, 


WHAT  HER  EYES  SAW  383 

so,  in  due  time,  they  failed;  therefore,  going  the  way  of 
thousands  of  such  attempts  in  Dixie.  For,  you  see, 
these  black  people  had  not  known  how  to  conduct  such 
a  business.  They  only  knew  how  to  wear  shoes,  when 
they  were  fitted  by  the  other  race. 

"Now  for  home/'  Mildred  sighed,  as  she  settled  back 
and  listened  to  the  hum  of  the  car,  as  it  sped  on  its 
way.  "Oh,  how  glad  I  am  that  I  eluded  him,"  she 
breathed  happily.  "I'll  be  late,  which  I  dislike;  but 
it's  better  late  than  never.  Blessed  old  dears/'  she 
added,  impulsively.  And  then  fell  to  planning  for  the 
Christmas  day.  It  was  so  near  now,  that  she  would 
have  to  hurry  in  her  few  plans.  Months  ago,  she  had 
hoped  she  was  going  to  spend  a  real,  genuine,  merry 
Christmas  with  her  friends,  the  Jacobs;  but  now,  long 
since,  of  course,  she  had  given  that  up.  But  she  was 
glad  that  she  had  found  this  new  place,  and  had  been 
there  long  enough  to  be  so  high  in  their  favor,  as  to  be 
the  star  guest  for  their  holiday. 

They  were  industrious,  and  raised  almost  all  they  ate 
in  a  garden  of  a  half  acre  in  the  rear.  And  chickens ! 
Mother  Jane  had  raised  two  hundred  fifty.  So  they 
had  this  meat  almost  every  day.  For  supper  they  would 
have  some  surely,  so,  soon  she  would  eat,  and  then  the 
two  would  prepare  for  the  coming  event.  She  was  im 
patient  to  be  there. 

It  was  freezing  outside.  Ice  could  be  seen  from 
the  car  window,  gathering  wherever  there  was  water. 
A  nice  hot  fire  they  would  have,  she  knew;  while  she 
had  a  good  new  book  that  was  half  read  through.  After 
all  was  done,  she  would  read  to  them,  and  so  all  three 
would  be  made  happy. 

She  fell  to  thinking,  to  thinking  of  others,  and  Sidney 
Wyeth  came  to  her  mind.  Last  Christmas  she  had 
received  two  nice  books  from  him.  He  wrote  no  letter, 
nor  did  he  autograph  the  same — he  didn't  even  let  her 
know  by  word  or  letter  that  they  were  from  him,  but 
she  knew. 

Where  was  he — where  had  he  been  since?  She  wished 
she  knew,  for  if  she  did,  as  she  thought  now,  she  would 


384  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

send  him  a  nice  book  for  a  Christmas  present.  But  he 
would  never  know  it  was  from  her.  Her  pleasure  would 
be  in  the  giving.  That  was  why  presents  were  given. 
For  the  pleasure  of  giving  a  token  of  remembrance. 
Some  people  did  not  consider  it  that  way,  but  then  they 
were  not  Christians.  She  wondered,  as  the  car  sped 
along,  how  many  people  who  belonged  to  church  did  not 
know  they  were  not  Christians. 

"I  wish  I  knew  where  he  is,"  she  said  again,  this  time 
half  aloud.  "Somehow  I  believe  he  would — forget — for 
a  day."  And  then  she  thought  of  Wilson  Jacobs,  and  in 
doing  so,  recalled  that,  in  the  months  gone  by,  she  had 
seen  him  at  the  end  of  a  talk,  and  was  forced  to  look 
away.  She  could  not  stand  the  pain  in  his  eyes.  Did 
he  care  for  her?  She  wouldn't  trust  herself  to  believe  it. 
It  wouldn't  be  right.  No.  She  was  glad  now  that  it 
had  gone  no  further.  It  wasn't  right  that  he  should  be 
allowed  to  do  that,  and  then  learn  the  truth.  Oh,  the 
truth!  That  was  her  burden.  The  other  had  learned 
the  truth,  and  then  he  went  away.  He  would  never 
return.  No.  And  Wilson  Jacobs  would  do  likewise. 
She  had  struggled  these  months  to  keep  it  from  him. 
If  he  learned  from  other  lips,  it  would  be  as  sad;  but 
she  would  at  least  not  have  to  face  him,  and  see  another 
suffering  in  his  eyes.  With  Sidney  Wyeth,  it  now  seemed 
different.  As  she  had  grown  to  feel,  she  believed  she 
could  meet  him.  She  felt  now  that  if  she  could  find  his 
whereabouts,  she  would  go  to  him.  Yes.  She  would  go 
to  him  and  see  him,  and  let  him  see  her.  Oh,  as  much 
as  she  loved  him — for  her  love  had  never  died — she 
believed  now  she  could  look  in  his  eyes  and  ask  him  to 
forget.  She  suddenly  made  up  her  mind  to  leave  and 
seek  him.  "But  I  can't,"  she  moaned.  "I  can  never 
leave  here  until  I  know  the  worst  in  regard  to  the  Y.  M. 
C.  A.  No.  I  would  never  be  happy  to  leave  them  to 
their  fate  until  I  know  the  best — or  the  worst."  Some 
where  in  the  great  north,  Wilson  Jacobs  had  either  by 
now,  succeeded  or  failed.  Which?  Until  she  knew,  she 
couldn't  bring  herself  to  leave. 

By  this  time,  she  had  arrived  at  the  getting  off  place. 


WHAT  HER  EYES  SAW  385 

She  sprang  lightly  from  the  car,  and  walked  briskly  to 
where  a  light  shone,  for  one  always  shone  from  Mother 
Jane's  window.  And  it  was  this  light  which  guided  her 
now.  She  skipped  lightly  along,  humming  a  little  song 
as  she  did  so.  Again  was  she  at  peace  with  the  world, 
and  forgave  all  who  sinned  against  her.  She  had  no 
malice  in  her  heart  against  anyone,  as  she  approached 
the  house — the  house  of  the  Wares' — where  already  the 
smell  of  nourishment  was  in  the  air. 

"Oh,  how  delightful  it  is  to  have  a  home.  A  place 
where  someone  with  love  in  their  hearts  awaits  you,  and, 
when  the  door  is  opened,  gathers  you  in  welcome."  She 
thanked  Him  that  is  Holy,  for  being  so  kind  to  her. 

She  had  arrived  at  last,  and  with  a  delightful  sigh, 
raised  her  foot  to  the  step,  and  as  she  did  so,  her  eyes 
glanced  through  the  window.  The  next  moment  she 
fell  back,  and  placed  her  hand  upon  her  breast,  while 
her  heart  thumped  violently  within. 

Then  she  turned,  and  disappeared  into  the  night, 
while  those  inside  waited. 


26 


CHAPTER  NINE 

"Wha's  T  Man?" 

On  she  flew.  Across  the  car  tracks  she  stumbled,  but 
she  didn't  stop,  nor  did  she  look  to  see  whether  anyone 
was  coming  or  not.  She  thought  of  nothing,  but  to  be 
away,  away,  away!  Down  the  street  that  was  dark  and 
rough,  and  led  to  where  she  did  not  know,  nor  did  she 
even  care.  She  was  going  away,  away  from  everybody. 
She  would  hide  herself  from  the  world.  She  could  go  to 
another  city,  but  there  was  no  use  in  that  either.  She 
cried  half  aloud  as  she  hurried  along:  "I  can  stand  it 
no  longer,  I  can  stand  it  no  longer!  I  want  to  die,  oh, 
I  want  to  die!" 

"I  know,"  she  choked  at  last,  as  she  stumbled  down 
the  middle  of  a  dark  alley,  in  which  she  now  found  her 
self.  "I  know,"  she  cried  again.  And  she  hurried  on, 
as  soon  as  she  had  caught  her  breath.  "It  is  the  river. 
Yes,  the  river."  She  quickened  her  pace  as  she  came 
into  a  street  that  was  at  the  end  of  the  alley.  It  was 
wider.  She  hastened  down  a  hill  that  seemed  to  her  a 
mile  long,  and  maybe  it  was  more.  But  when  she  had 
hurried  two  blocks  along  this,  she  left  the  middle  of  the 
street  and  took  to  the  sidewalk,  and  slowed  to  a  walk. 
"I  can't  go  on  like  this.  It  will  excite  people.  I  must 
walk,  but  I  must  hurry,  hurry,  hurry!" 

She  had  covered  many  blocks,  when  she  came  abreast 
of  buildings  occupied  by  colored  people.  There  was  a 
barber  shop  where  men  were  being  shaved,  and  a  restau 
rant  where  others  were  eating;  a  soda  fountain  also, 
and  she  wondered  whether  the  people  who  conducted  it 
made  any  money  this  time  of  the  year. 

The  night  seemed  to  have  grown  much  colder,  from 
the  frost  that  was  on  the  windows,  but  Mildred  Latham 
did  not  feel  it.  Her  face,  she  felt  it  for  a  moment,  was 

386 


"WHA'S  Y'  MAN?"  387 

flushed.  And  then  it  occurred  to  her  that  her  throat 
was  dry.  Oh,  yes.  She  knew  why,  now.  She  had  cried 
all  the  way  from  Mother  Jane's  to  here — wherever  it  was. 
And  her  face  was  hot,  her  throat  was  dry,  and  she  wanted 
water.  She  must  have  water,  or  she  could  no  longer 
swallow.  For  a  moment  she  hesitated  before  the  soda 
fountain.  Then  she  opened  the  door  and  entered.  A 
man  who  sat  in  the  rear  approached.  He  was  a  neat 
man,  with  a  heavy  mustache.  He  invited  her  to  a  chair 
at  a  table  that  was  near  a  glowing  fire.  She  took  it. 
He  waited  her  order  politely. 

"I  would  like  some — a-soda  water,  if  you  please,"  she 
said  hesitatingly.  He  looked  at  her  a  moment  keenly, 
winked  his  right  eye,  and  then  his  left — then  his  right 
eye  again,  twice.  She  looked  at  him  without  under 
standing.  He  repeated  it.  She  wondered  what  he 
meant.  Presently  he  moved  behind  the  counter,  and 
returned  with  her  order. 

While  she  drank  it,  another,  a  woman  came  in.  Mildred 
watched  him  incidentally.  He  repeated  the  winking 
process,  while  she  glanced  at  the  other,  who  repeated  it. 
He  went  now  to  a  room  in  the  rear,  and  when  he  returned, 
he  handed  her  something  in  a  package.  The  woman 
gave  him  a  half  dollar,  and  waited  for  no  change. 

"You're  a  stranger  about  here,  Miss?"  he  said, 
observing  her  a  bit  dubiously. 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  replied,  "I  am  a  stranger  about  here." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  he  said,  now  gazing  at  her  very  keenly 
a  few  moments.  "You're  one  of  the  solicitors  for  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A.,  I  suppose,"  said  he,  after  a  moment's  thought. 

"No,  sir,  I  am  not,"  she  replied  with  a  start,  and 
wondered  why  he  asked  her. 

"They  was  a-planning  t'  have  a  meeting  overhead 
here  t'night,  was  why  I  asked,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  is  that  so,"  she  commented,  and  then  added: 
"I  am  not  connected  with  it  in  any  way,  but  I  am  very 
much  interested  in  it." 

"Well,  it's  too  bad,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "but  I 
don't  think  we  will  ever  get  such  a  thing  in  this  town. 
It's  going  to  be  a  failure,  so  I  hear." 


388  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"Indeed,"  she  echoed,  "how  so?" 

"Well,  unless  they  get  twenty-seven  thousand  dollars 
together  in  a  week,  it's  sure  to  be.  And  'f  anybody  c'n 
raise  that  many  dollars,  's  hard  's  times  is  now,  I'd  lak 
t'  see  them,"  he  smiled  grimly. 

She  wanted  to  ask  him  about  Wilson,  but  hesitated. 
Had  he  returned?  He  was  speaking  again: 

"They  ain't  had  no  word  frum  the  secretary  since  he 
left.  He  went  north  some  time  ago,  and  it  was  hoped 
that  he  might  succeed  in  raising  the  amount  among  the 
wealthy  northern  people.  But  it's  dollars  t'  doughnuts 
that  he  don't.  'Cause  I  figure  it's  lak  this:  'f  he'd  a-had 
any  success  up  there,  some  word-a  come  back  by  now 
frum  'im." 

So  no  word  had  yet  come  from  Wilson  Jacobs,  and  as 
she  thought  of  his  possible  failure,  all  thought  of  herself 
and  what  had  been  in  her  mind  a  moment  ago,  left  her. 
When  she  left  the  place  she  was  calm.  But  where  to 
go  now  was  another  problem.  To  go  back  to  Mother 
Jane,  never  entered  her  mind.  She  wandered  about  for 
an  hour.  She  now  recognized  the  locality.  She  was  on 
the  same  street  she  had  found  upon  her  arrival  in  the 
city — Beal  street.  She  walked  up  this  for  two  blocks, 
and  where  many  Negroes  were  assembled.  Several 
picture  shows  greeted  her,  but  she  had  no  inclination  for 
such  amusement. 

Presently  she  turned  into  another  street  that  led  down 
to  the  river.  It  was  narrow  and  poorly  lighted,  and 
the  people,  what  few  she  saw,  were  ragged  and  dirty, 
and  forbidding.  She  walked  some  distance  on  this, 
until  she  came  across  another  that  led  in  another  direc 
tion.  Into  this  she  turned  aimlessly. 

She  had  gone  about  three-quarters  of  a  block,  when 
her  eyes,  in  glancing  up,  caught  sight  of  a  house,  dark 
and  weather  beaten,  with  a  glimmering  light  on  the 
front,  under  which  was  written: 

LODGING  FOR  MEN  OR  WOMEN 

RATES  RIGHT 
She  paused.    Her  hand  touched  her  forehead;   it  was 


"WHA'S  Y'  MAN?"  389 

hot  and  throbbing.  She  felt  tired,  and  her  eyes  were 
heavy  with  sleep.  She  hesitated,  turned  into  the  gate, 
and  approached  the  door  timidly.  It  was  a  forbidding 
place,  she  saw  as  she  came  nearer.  The  door  hung 
weakly  upon  its  hinges,  while  light  came  through  the 
many  cracks.  She  shuddered.  How  different  it  was 
from  Mother  Jane's,  where  everything  was  spick  and 
span,  clean  and  well  kept.  Oh,  if  she  could  be  home 
now  with  Mother  Jane!  She  wrapped  lightly  upon  the 
door,  and  it  seemed  a  long  time  before  someone  shuffled 
in  that  direction. 

Presently,  after  a  turning  of  bolts,  or  it  seemed  more 
like  someone  was  drawing  a  peg  out  of  a  staple,  with  a 
squeak,  the  door  opened  about  a  foot.  In  the  dim  light, 
the  face  of  an  old  woman  looked  out  from  a  very  wrinkled 
face. 

"What  d'  ya  want?"   she  asked  gruffly. 

"I  see  you  have  a  sign  up  here/7  and  she  pointed 
upward,  "that  says  rooms,"  she  replied,  timidly. 

"Yeh.     Is  yu  'lone.     Wha's  yu  man?" 

Mildred  shuddered,  and  then  she  recovered.  She  was 
tired  and  wanted  to  sleep.  Tomorrow  she  would  try  to 
do  better.  She  replied  as  politely  as  she  could;  "I  am 
alone.  I  have  no  man." 

"Hunh!"  grunted  the  other,  opening  the  squeaking 
door  wide  as  she  said:  "Come  in!" 

Mildred  entered  and  stood  looking  about  her,  while 
the  old  witch  regarded  her  suspiciously. 

"So  you're  alone,  uh?  Got  no  man.  Hunh!  That's 
funny."  She  hobbled  to  where  a  lamp  set,  with  chimney 
smoked,  and  upon  which  a  crack  had  been  patched  with 
paper.  "There's  a  chair.  Sit  down,  gal."  She  shuffled 
about,  and  when  the  light  was  better,  by  turning  it  up 
a  bit  higher,  she  came  near  where  Mildred  sat,  and 
took  a  seat  in  an  old  rocker  which  had  a  sack  filled  with 
straw,  to  make  it  more  comfortable. 

"How  much  do  you  charge  for  your  rooms?"  Mildred 
inquired. 

"Two  bits  when  you're  alone.  Thirty-five  cents  if  yu 
got  a  man."  Mildred  had  surmised  that  would  be  the 


390  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

charge,  and  had  the  amount  ready.  She  didn't  care  to 
have  this  witch  see  that  she  had  money.  She  handed 
her  the  quarter.  The  old  creature  took  it,  held  it  to 
the  light,  and  examined  it  a  moment  before  she  dropped 
it  into  an  old  pocket. 

"Wantta  go  t'  bed  now?"  the  other  inquired,  a  little 
kinder  than  she  had  spoken  before. 

"I  feel  sleepy,"  said  Mildred,  and  looked  it. 

"All  right,"  said  the  other,  rising  with  much  difficulty. 
"Ah,  gal,  that's  rheumatiz.  Bad.  When  you  gits  lak 
dis,  life  don't  hold  much  fo'  you." 

Mildred  tried  to  look  sympathetic  as  she  followed  her, 
and  murmured  something  inaudible. 

They  had  entered  a  room  now  that  corresponded  with 
the  remainder  of  the  house,  except  that  the  ceiling 
seemed  to  be  lower,  and  the  room  was  a  bit  cleaner. 
A  small  fireplace  was  in  one  side  of  the  wall,  and  the 
bed  stood  in  an  opposite  corner.  Two  chairs,  a  table, 
a  bureau,  a  wash  stand  and  a  pitcher  with  a  clean  towel 
spread  over  it,  made  up  the  meagre  furnishings.  A  rag 
carpet  covered  the  floor. 

"I  don't  fu'nish  fiah,"  said  the  other,  when  she  saw 
Mildred's  eyes  rest  for  a  moment  upon  the  fireplace. 
If  there  were  a  fire,  she  now  felt  she  would  rest  better. 

"I  should  like  to  purchase  some  fuel  of  you  to  make 
a  fire,  if  it  is  possible,"  she  said. 

"I'll  sell  you  a  nickel's  wo'th." 

"Very  well.  Bring  it  in."  When  the  other  was  gone, 
she  took  fifty  cents  in  change  from  her  purse.  She 
displayed  this  that  the  other  might  see  and  feel  that 
she  possessed  little.  A  few  minutes  later,  she  was  alone 
with  a  fire  cracking  in  the  grate,  that  soon  made  the 
room  quite  comfortable. 

She  retired  when  the  room  had  become  warm.  The 
heat,  in  contrast  with  the  air  she  had  just  come  out  of, 
made  her  yawn.  So,  after  barring  the  door  securely, 
she  retired,  and  was  soon  fast  asleep. 

She  might  have  slept  for  an  hour,  or  it  may  have 
been  only  a  minute,  but  she  was  slowly  awakened  by  a 
stream  of  light  that  poured  in  through  the  window.  She 


"WHA'S  Y'  MAN?"  391 

sat  up  suddenly,  and  blinked  as  the  rays  fell  across  her 
face,  and  saw  that  she  had  forgotten  to  draw  the  blind 
and  that  the  moonlight  was  streaming  into  her  room. 

But  it  was  not  that  alone  which  had  awakened  her. 
There  was  some  commotion  in  the  street,  or  rather,  in 
the  house  next  door.  A  wagon  stood  at  the  front,  and 
into  it,  policemen  were  pushing  men  and  women.  The 
wagon  was  a  police  patrol,  and  they  were  making  a  raid. 
In  a  few  minutes  it  was  all  over,  and,  dropping  back, 
she  was  soon  asleep  again. 


CHAPTER  TEN 

"Kick  Higher  Dare,  Gal!" 

Christmas  day  had  come  and  the  whole  country  was 
gay  and  festive.  In  the  city  of  our  story,  the  sun  shone 
beautifully,  and  from  the  way  the  birds  sang,  it  was 
hard  to  believe  it  was  late  December.  The  streets,  at 
an  early  hour,  were  filled  with  pedestrians  seeking  the 
open  air,  freedom  and  merriment.  Fire  crackers  filled 
the  air  with  noise;  while  the  discharge  of  blank  cartridges 
and  an  occasional  gunshot,  as  well  as  a  cannon  now  and 
then,  added  to  the  confusion.  The  sharp  noises  made 
many  people  start  suddenly,  and  then  smile  when  they 
recalled  that  it  was  Xmas  day;  the  day  when  Jesus, 
our  Saviour,  came  into  the  world,  and  began  a  Christian 
civilization. 

But  there  was  one  person  who  was  neither  gay,  merry, 
nor  festive;  although  she  had  cherished  hopes,  dreams, 
and  desires  for  that  day. 

Mildred  Latham  lurked  in  the  confines  of  the  room 
she  had  taken,  seeing  the  world — a  small  part  of  it — from 
the  window  of  the  room  she  had  taken  a  night  or  two 
before.  She  had  remained  in  it  ever  since,  venturing 
out  only  to  get  something  to  eat  and  drink.  She  was 
almost  oblivious  to  the  fact,  that  it  was  Xmas  day, 
until  the  discharge  of  firearms  and  crackers  came  to  her 
ears  from  the  street.  And  then  she  awakened  to  the 
reality  of  what  she  would  lose  that  day. 

A  Chinaman  ran  the  restaurant  where  she  bought  her 
meals.  At  one  of  their  stores,  she  had  purchased  a  few 
dishes  and  a  knife,  spoon  and  a  fork,  so  she  brought  the 
meals  to  her  room,  and  ate  the  same  at  the  table.  She 
had  no  plans  now  for  Xmas  day.  She  tried  to  forget  it, 
but  the  noise  from  the  street  did  not  permit  her  to  do 
so.  As  the  sun  rose  higher,  the  revelry  became  more 

392 


"KICK  HIGHER  DARE,  GAL!"  393 

pronounced.  She  tried  to  forget  the  day  Mother  Jane 
and  she  had  planned  to  spend  together.  She  tried  to 
shut  out  of  her  mind  the  day  she  might  have  spent  with 
the  Jacobs.  And  she  tried,  likewise,  not  to  see  the 
dreary  day  she  must  now  perforce  spend — alone. 

The  sun  rose  higher  and  higher,  and  the  day  became 
warmer.  So  warm  about  noon,  that  she  raised  her 
window  and  permitted  the  soft  breeze  to  float  in  upon 
her,  filling  her  lungs  with  it,  and  sighing  contentedly. 
She  watched  the  few  people  that  passed  that  way,  and 
noted  that  they  all  appeared  so  happy.  They  were  all 
apparently  carefree  and  desirous  of  getting  all  the 
enjoyment  that  the  day  afforded.  Presently  it  occurred 
to  her  to  venture  forth  and  get  something.  It  was  bad 
enough  that  she  must  spend  it  alone;  but  to  hover  in 
the  four  walls  of  that  little  room,  was  a  fact  she  could 
no  longer  submit  to. 

She  passed  into  the  room  that  may  have  been  called 
a  sitting  room,  and  where  the  old  woman  was  stewing 
some  meat  on  the  rusty,  stove.  Before  the  other  turned 
at  the  sound  of  her  footfall,  she  scrutinized  her  for  a 
moment,  meditatively.  She  wondered  who  this  old 
woman  was,  who  lived  thus  alone.  She  fancied  what  her 
life  must  be;  she  had  other  roomers,  she  had  observed; 
but  they  came  in  late  and  left  early,  so  she  had  no  idea 
who  they  were,  or  what  kind  of  people  stayed  there. 
She  hesitated  for  a  second,  and  then  the  other  turned  and 
faced  her. 

"Uh,  gal,"  she  creaked  in  her  shaky  old  voice,  "be 
goin'  out  t'  see  a  liT  Xmas,  ha,  ha!  Sho'  you  might. 
Cain'  stay  shut  up  in  that  room  all  time!"  And  she 
grinned,  which  made  her  features  repulsive  to  Mildred. 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  thought  I  would  step  out  and  look 
around  a  while,"  she  answered  kindly.  "I  shall  be 
back  presently." 

As  she  went  toward  the  gate,  the  hag  looked  after  her 
and  shook  her  head,  as  she  muttered:  "That  gal's  a 
puzzle,  a  devilish  puzzle.  I  cain'  make  her  out;  but  of 
one  thing  I'm  certain,  she's  straight.  Huh!  Yes,  she's 
straight,"  and  she  continued  shaking  her  head. 


394  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

And  it  was  that  fact  that  made  her  a  mystery  to  this 
old  woman. 

She  walked  along  slowly  when  she  got  into  the 
street,  looking  from  one  side  to  the  other.  At  the  end 
of  the  street,  in  the  direction  she  had  taken,  was  the 
warehouse  district.  In  the  old  days,  this  had  been  a 
prominent  shipping  point  by  water;  but  now  this  had 
been  largely  substituted  by  railroads.  The  yards  were 
quiet  today,  as  she  made  her  way  along,  while  scarcely  a 
wagon  was  in  evidence  around  the  many  large  buildings. 

She  walked  in  the  same  direction  until  she  came  to  a 
street  that  led  down  to  the  river.  She  turned  into  this, 
and  followed  it  until  she  stood  on  the  banks  of  the  stream 
that  flowed  gently  southward.  It  was  filled  with  a 
number  of  boats,  while  ferries  plied  back  and  forth  to 
the  other  side.  For  a  half  hour  she  stood  thus,  with  her 
mind  free  of  all  care,  and  enjoyed  the  stiff  air  that  came 
with  the  breeze  from  the  river.  When  she  presently 
turned  to  go,  she  felt  strangely  invigorated,  and  decided 
to  walk  about  more. 

Without  regard  to  direction,  she  finally  found  herself 
on  Beal  street,  which  she  recognized  at  once.  She  paused 
briefly  before  venturing  into  it,  but  the  street  was  filled 
with  music;  while  across  the  way,  several  electric  shows 
invited  the  crowds  that  poured  in  and  out.  So  she  went 
forward  timidly.  She  stopped  at  length  before  a  black 
boy  who  was  turning  a  street  piano.  The  music  was 
exhilerating,  and  she  gave  him  a  nickel  when  he  was 
starting  away,  whereupon  he  dropped  the  handles  and 
played  her  three  of  the  popular  airs.  She  gave  him 
another  nickel,  and  he  took  delight  in  turning  on  three 
more.  By  this  time  a  crowd  had  gathered,  and,  thinking 
quickly,  she  slipped  away  and  continued  her  way. 

She  stood  before  a  large  picture  show  for  colored  people 
a  few  minutes  later.  At  the  front  were  gorgeous  pictures, 
advertising  the  show  within.  She  hesitated  briefly,  and 
then,  fishing  a  five  cent  piece  from  her  purse,  she  entered 
the  show,  and  took  a  seat  to  one  side.  In  a  minute  her 
attention  was  centered  on  the  screen,  where  a  western 
play  in  which  red  Indians  and  cowboys  were  in  a  mimic 


"KICK  HIGHER  DARE,  GAL!"  395 

battle  was  being  shown.  The  play  aroused  much  interest 
in  the  audience,  which  fairly  raised  from  the  seats  at 
times,  especially  when  there  was  a  gun  play;  and  since 
gun  playing  seemed  to  be  in  evidence,  much  excitement 
was  attendant  during  the  whole  time  the  reel  was  being 
run. 

She  recalled  suddenly,  what  she  had  read  in  the  book 
of  Sidney  Wyeth,  with  regard  to  Indians.  He  had  dwelt 
at  some  length  upon  this  subject,  and  had  concluded  a 
chapter  with  words  to  the  effect  that  the  Indian,  as  he 
was  today,  and  had  been  for  years,  was  in  no  wise  what 
he  was  pictured  upon  the  screen,  or  in  novels,  but  a  shift 
less  being,  without  spirit.  In  truth,  only  an  example  of 
dull  inertia. 

The  next  reel  was  much  more  original,  she  thought, 
and,  therefore,  more  interesting — to  her;  but  it  wasn't 
to  many  of  those  about  her,  who,  as  she  heard  them, 
made  little  effort  to  catch  the  moral  of  it. 

It  was  a  play  of  present  day  life,  in  which  the  hero 
was  a  man  employed  as  floor  walker  in  a  large  depart 
ment  store,  while  the  heroine  was  a  girl,  employed  in  the 
most  insignificant  position  in  the  basement  of  the  same. 
She  studied  the  play,  and  was  carried  away  with  the  great 
human  interest  conveyed  in  the  plot.  It  was  a  difficult 
task  to  keep  her  mind  and  thoughts  .upon  it,  however, 
because  all  about  her,  many  remarks  came  from  im 
patient  creatures,  who  continually  muttered  aloud, 
demanding  that  it  be  hurried  off,  and  something  with 
"ginger"  put  on. 

"Hu'y,  hu'y,  'n'  git  hit  off!  Git  a  gal  out  the'  'n' 
some  song  'n'  dancin',"  said  one  who  sat  next  to  her, 
and  who,  she  observed,  was  ragged  and  dirty  in  the 
bargain;  his  long,  kinky  hair  stood  erect  on  his  head, 
and  made  him  resemble  something  recently  departed 
from  the  jungle. 

When  the  vaudeville  in  connection  therewith  was  put 
on,  she  was  filled  with  disgust.  It  was  not  refined  vaude 
ville,  and  in  no  way  corresponded  with  the  pictures  that 
had  preceeded  it;  but  of  the  most  vulgar  sort.  It  brought 
shrill  cries  from  the  throats  of  those  about  her,  and 
remarks  that  showed  the  character  of  the  crowd. 


396  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"Put  the  sof  pedal  on  it,  kid,  ke-ha!" 

"Dat  gal  sho  kin'  sing,  nigga,  believe  muh!" 

"Kick  higher,  dare,  gal!  You  am'  done  nothinY' 
growled  one,  who  was  not  satisfied. 

Mildred  arose  to  go  out.  To  get  to  the  aisle,  she  must 
pass  about  ten  people,  mostly  men  in  rough  clothing. 
"Set  down,  gal,  don'  git  in  front-a  me!"  one  next  to  her 
complained. 

"Don'  spile  my  gaze  when  dat  gal's  showing  up  lak 
she  is,"  said  another.  With  a  sigh  and  a  disgusted  feel 
ing,  she  sank  back  and  made  herself  patient,  until  the 
disgusting  performance  was  at  an  end.  She  had  no 
trouble  then,  for  all  those  between  her  and  the  aisle 
filed  out  ahead  of  her.  Apparently  they  came  to  the 
show  for  the  purpose  of  witnessing  the  vaudeville  only. 

When  she  was  on  the  street  again,  the  sun  was  getting 
toward  the  west,  but  she  did  not  feel  like  going  back  to 
the  hovel  she  called  a  room  yet.  The  noise  and  music 
seemed  to  make  her  forget  her  troubles  and  worries,  and, 
mingling  with  the  masses  that  now  filled  the  sidewalks, 
she  followed  them  aimlessly  along  the  street.  She 
stopped  before  other  shows,  and,  when,  at  last,  finding 
one  that  appeared  to  have  no  vaudeville  in  connection 
with  the  pictures,  and  which  did  not  appear  to  have 
such  a  big  crowd  about  the  entrance,  she  entered  and 
took  a  seat  toward  the  rear. 

She  had  been  seated  about  half  an  hour,  when  she 
chanced,  upon  looking  back,  to  see  someone  whose  face 
was  familiar.  She  looked  toward  the  front,  and  then, 
after  a  few  minutes,  in  which  she  tried  to  recall  where 
it  was  she  had  seen  it  before,  she  turned  her  head  slowly, 
and  looked  again.  Behind  her,  and  just  seating  them 
selves,  were  not  only  three  women  belonging  to  Wilson 
Jacobs'  church,  and  with  whom  she  was  well  acquainted 
— they  had  been  her  best  friends,  and  had  admired  her 
playing  and  singing — but  in  their  midst,  sat  Constance 
herself. 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

"My  Wife— Sick— HELL!" 

It  was  the  day  before  New  Years,  and  the  city  was  in  the 
grip  of  a  severe  blizzard  that  has  swept  down  from  the 
northwest,  and  had  driven  the  people  from  the  streets  and 
into  their  homes,  where  they  stayed  closely  shut  in. 
From  her  little  room,  Mildred  Latham  peeped  out 
through  the  small  window,  and  was  glad  it  was  an  ugly 
day  without;  for,  being  so,  she  did  not  feel  as  lonesome, 
and  so  desirous  of  going  forth,  as  she  had  the  few  days 
previous;  or,  since  Xmas  day. 

She  would  never  forget  the  moments  she  went  through, 
wondering  how  she  would  extricate  herself,  when  her 
friends  entered  the  show  and  seated  themselves  behind 
her. 

She  had  sat  with  her  heart  beating  a  tattoo  against 
her  ribs,  and  hardly  dared  to  breathe.  The  play  was  a 
deep  one  that  flashed  upon  the  screen,  but  her  attention 
had  wandered.  She  was  trying,  with  all  her  senses,  to 
think  of  some  way  out,  and  the  way  would  have  to 
come  quickly,  for  if  not,  at  the  best,  it  would  be  only  a 
question  of  minutes,  possibly  seconds,  before  one  of  the 
trio  saw  and  recognized  her.  She  was  almost  choking 
when  there  was  a  noise  in  the  rear.  All  eyes  turned 
quickly,  and  then  there  was  a  snapping  of  films,  or 
something;  but,  whatever  it  was,  the  place  was  dark  in 
a  moment. 

Now  was  her  chance,  she  thought,  as  the  theater  was 
suddenly  plunged  into  darkness.  She  arose.  Could  she 
make  it?  In  a  flash  the  lights  might  be  on.  "Great 
God!"  she  trembled.  "Suppose  they  should  be  turned 
on!"  And  with  this  fear  gripping  her  heart  until  the 
perspiration  started,  she  struggled  toward  the  door. 
She  stepped  on  many  toes,  while  growls  and  complaints 

397 


398  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

came  from  the  lips  of  the  owners,  but  she  felt  her  way 
resolutely  forward  and  toward  the  aisle.  It  seemed  like 
an  age  before  her  feet  found  it.  Through  the  place  now, 
matches  were  flashing.  She  glanced  for  a  brief  second  in 
the  direction  of  those  from  whom  she  was  fleeing,  and, 
as  she  did  so,  someone  struck  a  match.  In  that  moment, 
the  faces  of  the  four  came  full  into  view.  "Oh,  my  God!" 
she  cried  inaudibly,  "they  are  looking  straight  at  me." 
But  before  the  flare  had  died,  she  breathed  a  sigh  of 
relief,  for,  at  that  moment  the  lights  came  on,  and  they 
were  looking  toward  the  screen. 

She  passed  quietly  out,  and,  when  once  outside,  hurried 
in  the  direction  of  her  room. 

They  had  not  seen  her. 

The  day  was  fading  into  twilight.  The  sun  had  set, 
and  with  it  the  wind  had  fallen;  the  air  had  become 
still,  and  the  stars  shone  brightly  from  above. 

"If  I  don't  get  out  of  this  place  for  an  hour,  I  will 
surely  die,"  cried  Mildred,  walking  the  floor  in  a  fit  of 
impatience.  Having  become  accustomed  to  plenty  of 
exercise,  the  days  that  had  come  and  gone  since  Xmas 
day  had  seemed  like  an  eternity.  Perhaps  it  was  hard 
for  her,  because  she  had  not  been  further  than  the  restau 
rant  since  that  day.  She  admitted  to  herself  that  she 
was  afraid  to  go  anywhere  now.  She  had  not  the  courage 
to  run  the  risk  of  being  seen  again,  and  had,  therefore, 
remained  confined  to  her  room. 

She  paused  before  the  window,  and  looked  long  and 
earnestly  into  the  street.  Never  before  had  anything 
seemed  so  inviting.  She  was  simply  mad  to  be  in  it,  if 
for  only  a  half  hour;  but  to  be  in  it,  she  felt  she  must. 
After  a  time,  she  resolved  to  run  the  risk.  She  fixed 
herself  as  best  she  could,  and  shuddered  when  she  realized 
that  she  had  not  changed  her  clothes  for  a  week.  At 
last,  with  a  suppression  of  her  excited  nerves,  she  slipped 
out  of  the  house,  and  entered  the  street  just  as  darkness 
had  set  in,  and  the  stars  were  the  brightest. 

She  hurried  along,  and  when  she  had  arrived  at  the 
end  of  the  street,  she  turned  into  another,  and  in  a 


"MY  WIFE— SICK— HELL!"  399 

direction  she  had  not  been  before.  Along  this  she  hur 
ried,  feeling  the  sting  of  the  air,  which  brought  the  blood 
to  her  cheeks,  and  made  her  feel  real  life,  after  many 
days  of  fear  and  worry.  She  had  been  downtown  one 
day  before  Xmas,  where  she  dispatched  a  telegram,  and 
now,  as  she  hurried  along,  it  occurred  to  her  to  go  to  the 
office  again.  She  walked  boldly  in  that  direction,  and 
a  moment  after  she  had  entered,  she  came  out  with  a 
satisfied  smile  playing  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

"Now,"  she  whispered  softly,  "where  shall  I  go?" 
Without  answering  her  own  question,  she  began  walking. 
She  walked  until  she  had  exercised  her  limbs,  and  they 
were  tired.  So  she  felt  like  sitting  down  and  resting. 
Still  she  continued  the  way  she  was  going  until,  in  turn 
ing  a  corner,  she  ran  fully  into  someone  and  fell  back 
with:  "I  beg  your  pardon!"  And  then  suddenly  the 
other  fell  back. 

"Why,  Miss  Latham!"   the  other  exclaimed,  amazed. 

"Miss  Jones,  I  declare!"  echoed  the  other,  and  stood 
abashed. 

"I  have  not  seen  or  heard  of  you  for  months.  Indeed, 
I  thought  you  left  town  long  since!" 

"No-o,"  Mildred  mumbled,  frightened  and  embar- 
rased,  all  in  one. 

"And — what — what  are  you  doing — in  this  part  of 
town!"  the  other  exclaimed,  now  regarding  her  sus 
piciously. 

"This  part  of  town?"  she  echoed  bewilderingly. 
"I — I— don't  understand.  Why  this  part  of  town?" 

"Yes,  this^  part  of  town."  She  paused  a  moment  and 
surveyed  Mildred  in  wonder,  and  then  went  on:  "Why, 
didn't  you  know?  This  part  of  town — is  the  restricted 
district!'' 

"Oh — Miss  Jones!"  she  wailed.  "Heaven  help  me! 
I  didn't  know!" 

The  other  looked  at  her  keenly  and  a  little  dubious, 
and  then  she  said,  with  a  toss  of  her  head,  as  something 
seemed  to  have  occurred  to  her  when  the  other  looked  at 
her  strangely: 

"I  guess  you  wonder  what  I  am  doing  down  here,  too." 


400  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

The  other  started,  and  her  lips  opened  to  say  she  had 
not,  but  before  she  could  say  anything,  the  other  con 
tinued: 

"Well,  I  don't  mind  admitting  what  I  am  doing  down 
here,  since  I  see  you  here,  also;  but  I  have  been  coming 
down  here  for  a  long  time.  Yes,  you  see  this  is  not 
the  first  time.  I  have  been  down  here  before,"  and  she 
laughed  a  hard  laugh,  as  she  ended  with  another  toss 
of  her  head. 

Mildred  stood  frozen.  She  could  not  collect  her 
shattered  wits  to  say  anything,  but  she  was  thinking. 
Miss  Jones  was  a  member  of  Wilson  Jacobs'  church  and 
sang  in  the  choir.  "It  can't  be  possible!"  she  mur 
mured  inaudibly.  "It  can't  be  possible!"  And  then, 
all  of  a  sudden,  she  felt  sorry  for  Miss  Jones,  because  she 
had  liked  her,  and  thought  her  very  sweet.  And  now 
she  met  her  face  to  face  in  the  worst  part  of  the  city! 
How  could  this  be  explained!  Miss  Jones  being  en 
countered  in  the  worst  part  of  the  city!  .  .  .  And  Miss 
Jones  had,  with  her  own  lips,  admitted  that  'she  had 
been  there  before.  She  had  been  coming  there  for  a  long 
time/  "Oh,  God,"  Mildred  cried  almost  aoud:  "This  is 
terrible!"  Why  did  Miss  Jones  come  to  this  part  of 
town?  .  .  .  Miss  Jones  came  to  this  part  of  town  and 
knew  she  was  doing  so.  ...  Then,  if  that  were  true — which 
it  surely  was — Miss  Jones  was  a  bad  girl.  .  .  .  Miss  Jones 
a  bad  girl?  She  could  not  believe  it;  and  yet,  before 
she  could  get  all  this  through  her  whirling  brain,  she 
heard  Miss  Jones  speaking  again.  What  was  she  saying? 
It  couldn't  be  true!  Surely  Miss  Jones  could  not  mean 
what  she  was  saying.  Oh,  horrors!  If  Miss  Jones 
meant  what  she  was  saying,  then,  Miss  Jones  regarded 
her  as  a  bad  girl,  too.  "Miss  Jones,  Miss  Jones!"  Some 
thing  in  her  now  was  crying,  although  her  lips  moved  not. 
"Please  don't,  please  don't!  I  am  not  that  way. 
I  am  not  a  bad  girl,  oh,  no,  please,  please!"  And  still 
her  lips  had  not  moved.  She  stood  like  a  dumb  person; 
but  she  heard  Miss  Jones  clearly: 

"Let's  go  over  here  to  a  place  I  know,"  she  said.  " It's 
safe — nobody  but  a  swell  bunch  goes  there,  no  tramps 
or  talkers" 


"MY  WIFE— SICK— HELL!"  401 

She  felt  all  she  had  heard  a  moment  before  now  running 
through  her  mind,  and  yet  she  did  not  speak.  Miss 
Jones  was  speaking  again: 

"We  are  both  in  the  same  boat;  one's  as  bad  as  the 
other.  No  questions  asked.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  Miss  Jones,"  Mildred  heard  again,  but  her  lips 
still  were  not  moved.  "How  can  you,  oh,  how  can  you!" 
Why  didn't  she  do  something?  She  heard  herself,  but 
words  were  not  spoken:  "Why  do  you  stand,  Mildred 
Latham?  Why  do  you  not  go — hurry?  You  have  stood 
too  long  now.  Hurry,  hurry!  To  Mother  Jane's — to 
Jacobs!  Yes,  to  anywhere;  but  go,  go,  go!"  And  still 
she  stood  in  flesh,  and  made  no  reply. 

"A  swell  bunch  from  the  north,  railroad  fellows  with 
plenty  of  coin.  Some  good  time,  kid.  Come  on  at  once. 
Let's  don't  stand  here  and  be  looked  at." 

She  was  in  a  trance  now.  She  couldn't  stand  there; 
she  was  aware  of  that.  That  would  be  worse.  How  to 
get  out,  she  did  not  know,  for  she  had  now  forgotten 
how  she  came  in.  But  she  had  np  notion  of  following 
Miss  Jones.  No.  She  would  go  to  Mother  Jane's — no, 
she  would  go  to  Jacobs.  Jacobs?  Who  were  they?  Oh, 
yes.  She  remembered  now.  And  when  she  knew  the 
Jacobs,  she  had  known  them  for  the  truth.  If  she  went 
to  them  and  told  them  she  had  just  came  from  the  — 
oh,  no,  np,  no!  She  couldn't  go  to  Jacobs.  .  .  .  But  now 
she  had  it.  She  would  go  to  Sidney  Wyeth.  .  .  .  Yes, 
that  was  where  she  would  go.  He  would  welcome  her. 
He  would  be  good  to  her;  while  she — she — would  tell 
him  everything — yes,  everything.  Oh,  she  was  glad  she 
had  thought  of  him  in  time.  Because  if  she  had  waited 
a  little  longer,  she  might  not  be  fit  to  go  to  him. 

They  were  going  now,  Miss  Jones  and  she.  Miss 
Jones  was  going,  where?  She  didn't  know,  but  she, 
Mildred  Latham  was  going  to  her  lover,  Sidney  Wyeth. 
Oh,  how  she  loved  him — she  had  always  loved  him; 
but  now  she  loved  him  more  than  ever.  And  she  was 
going  to  him,  and  when  she  arrived,  the  first  thing  she 
would  do,  would  be  to  get  on  her  knees,  as  she  did  when 
a  little  girl,  at  her  prayers.  She  would  tell  him  all.  All 

26 


402  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

the  truth  from  the  time  she  was  old  enough  to  remem 
ber,  until  today.  Yes,  she  would  tell  him  all.  She 
would  show  him  how  faithfully  she  had  worked  in  the 
sale  of  his  book.  And  she  would  tell  him  how  she  had 
been  driven  from  place  to  place,  until  she  had  no  home 
nor  friends;  but,  withal,  she  had  remained  clean.  Clean? 
Yes,  that  was  why  she  had  struggled  so.  She  had  fought 
everything,  to  keep  clean.  .  .  .  And  he,  oh,  he — would  be 
happy.  Oh,  he  would  be  so  happy.  And  then  they 
would  both — yes,  both  go  to  the  Rosebud  Country  to 
gether.  Wouldn't  that  be  delightful?  They  would  go 
to  the  Rosebud  Country  together  and  live  happily. 

"Here  we  are/'  she  heard  Miss  Jones  saying.  She 
rapped  on  the  door  in  a  peculiar  fashion.  Presently  the 
door  opened,  but  no  one  stood  beside  it  or  behind  it. 
It  had  opened  from  the  top  of  a  stair,  which  they  mounted 
the  moment  they  entered.  This  led  to  somewhere,  but 
she  followed. 

Now  they  were  at  the  top,  and  paused  for  a  brief 
moment;  then,  turning  to  the  right,  they  crossed  a 
hallway  and  entered  a  room.  The  door  closed  behind 
them,  and  it  was  some  time  before  her  eyes  became 
accustomed  to  the  darkness  within.  Why  was  the  room 
dark?  She  wondered;  but  just  then  it  became  a  blaze 
of  light.  She  looked  all  around  her  bewilderingly.  It 
was  a  beautifully  furnished  room,  with  a  soft,  heavy 
carpet,  while  about  the  room  were  many  heavy  chairs. 
In  the  center  was  a  table,  and  around  the  side  were  smaller 
tables.  "What  was  this  place?"  she  asked  herself, 
feeling  the  back  of  one  of  the  heavy  chairs.  To  one  side 
of  the  room  was  a  huge  buffet  with  a  number  of  glasses, 
all  thin  and  of  many  varying  sizes,  artistically  arranged. 
On  the  other  end  was  a  piano,  with  an  electric  cord 
reaching  it  from  above.  And  as  she  stood  looking  at  it, 
a  light  within  it  flashed,  and  it  began  to  play  a  song 
that  made  the  room  resound. 

"Hark!  What  was  that!"  she  cried,  with  her  lips 
closed.  She  saw  the  eyes  of  her  companion,  as  her  ears 
listened  to  the  music.  A  smile,  a  wild  smile  danced  in 
the  eyes  of  Miss  Jones.  She  caught  Mildred  suddenly 


"MY  WIFE— SICK— HELL!"  403 

about  the  waist,  and  before  she  was  aware  of  it,  was 
whirling  her  about  in  a  waltz.  And  the  tune — was  the 
Blue  Danube! 

In  the  midst  of  the  sweet  old  tune,  the  door  they  had 
entered  a  moment  ago  swung  open,  and  two  men  entered. 
They  were  striking  looking  men  and  were  dressed  in  the 
latest  style  of  clothes.  They  were  both  smoking  cigars, 
and  the  room  was  soon  filled  with  the  aroma.  But  they 
must  have  been  good  cigars,  because  the  odor  they  gave 
off  was  pleasant — so  Mildred  thought. 

Miss  Jones  dropped  her  at  once  and  flew  to  one  of  them, 
who  gathered  her  in  his  arms,  and  dreadful,  before  the 
others  he  kissed  her.  As  Mildred  swallowed,  she  turned 
and  nestled  in  his  embrace,  and  with  his  hands  he  pulled 
her  head  back  until  her  round  throat  stood  out  beauti 
fully,  and  kissed  her  again  and  again. 

Mildred  was  shocked  at  such  immodesty;  but  before 
she  got  over  it,  the  other  stood  over  her,  smiling  down 
into  her  face  with  eyes  that  danced  like  fire.  She  fell 
away  from  beneath  his  amorous  gaze,  and  ran  across  the 
room  and  got  behind  a  chair.  She  turned  and  looked  at 
him  wildly  now.  He  hurried  after  her.  His  lips  were 
pursed  to  say  something  funny,  and  then  he  saw  her 
eyes.  He  stopped  suddenly  and  fell  back  a  step,  while 
his  smile  died  and  his  gaze,  as  he  saw  her  now,  grew 
pointed. 

"  Thunder !"  he  muttered  slowly.  The  others  dis- 
embraced  themselves,  and  regarded  them  for  a  moment. 
They  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and  then  three  pairs 
of  eyes  rested  upon  her  alone.  At  first  they  were  dubious, 
and  then,  as  they  saw  the  frightened  look,  they  changed 
to  something  akin  to  contempt. 

"Aw,  kid/'  cried  Miss  Jones — and  Mildred  had  never 
imagined  she  could  be  so  coarse.  " ' Cut'  it.  He's  a  good 
guy,  he  is.  A  thoroughbred!"  She  looked  at  the  man 
now,  who  appeared  a  trifle  angry.  "You're  spoiling  it 
all.  He'd  like  you;  but  he  don't  want  too  much  of  the 
kid  play." 

"These  good  lookers  are  always  hard  t'  land,"  said 
the  man.  "But  this  trick  appears  the  hardest."  Then 


404  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

to  her  he  said:  "Come  on  kid.  Look  over  my  hurry  of 
a  moment  ago.  That  face  of  yours,  I  must  say,  got  me 
'daffy'/'  and  he  laughed  with  a  toss  of  the  head. 

Her  tension  relaxeH,  and  she  permitted  herself  to  come 
from  behind  the  chair.  A  moment  later  they  were  seated 
around  the  large  table  in  the  center  of  the  room.  A 
waiter  now  stood  over  them,  with  eyes  askance. 

"Little  Sunny  Brook  '11  do  me,"  said  one  of  the  men. 
The  other  nodded  the  same;  his  eyes  rested  upon  Miss 
Jones,  who  tossed  her  head  gayly,  and  said: 

"Aw,  Dickie  and  Joe,  I  don't  like  it  straight.  Make 
mine  a  dry  martini." 

He  attended  Mildred  now,  while  the  others  conversed. 
She  did  not  know  what  to  say.  She  had  not  thought  of 
anything  to  drink;  but  in  that  moment  she  knew  she 
would  have  to  order  something. 

"A  coca  cola,"  she  said  quietly. 

Three  pair  of  eyes  regarded  her  then  with  surprise 
evident.  As  it  became  clear  to  them,  all  threw  their 
heads  back  and  laughed  loudly.  The  waiter  stood  with 
a  little  smile  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  which 
showed  he  possessed  a  sense  of  humor. 

Mildred  was  silent  and  looked  at  them  in  surprise. 
Presently,  when  they  had  quieted,  Miss  Jones  said  a 
little  impatiently: 

"You're  a  good  one,  kid.  I  must  say  so.  Coca  cola! 
ha,  ha!  But  they  don't  carry  coca  cola  at  this  ' joint'," 
whereupon  they  laughed  again. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  now  spoke  the  waiter.  "We  carry  coca 
cola,  but  it's  used  as  a  wash."  They  laughed  long  and 
earnestly. 

"Bring  us  a  quart  of  Sunny  Brook,"  said  the  man  who 
was  nearest  her.  "And — yes,  bring  this  little  girl  here 
a  coca  cola — for  a  wash." 

He  lit  a  fresh  cigar,  and  smiled. 

"Play  cards,  kid?"  he  inquired,  and  looked  at  her. 
"Why  don't  you  say  something,  sweetness?  Gee!  Has 
the  cat  got  your  tongue?"  he  complained  a  trifle  ner 
vously,  as  he  flicked  the  ashes  from  the  cigar. 

The  waiter  had  returned  now  with  many  glasses  and 


"MY  WIFE— SICK— HELL!"  405 

bottles,  and  their  drinks  were  before  them.  Before  her 
was  placed  a  small  bottle  of  the  drink  she  had  ordered, 
while  two  glasses  were  arranged  beside  it,  while  a 
larger  glass  filled  with  ice  stood  beside  them.  The 
others  had  before  them  likewise,  all  except  Miss  Jones, 
whose  drink  was  in  a  peculiar  glass  with  a  long  stem, 
and  flashed  green  in  the  electric  light. 

The  others  poured  their  glasses  about  half  full,  while 
Mildred  poured  a  part  of  the  fluid  in  one  of  the  glasses 
before  her.  It  foamed!  She  stopped,  and  when  it  quit 
foaming,  the  glass  was  only  about  a  third  full.  She  had 
not  observed  how  much  it  lacked  of  being  full,  when 
suddenly  the  room  resounded  with  the  music  of  the 
electric  piano.  It  took  her  so  much  by  surprise,  that  she 
turned  quickly  and  looked.  When  she  saw  that  it  was 
only  the  piano,  she  turned  to  them  again,  as  they  raised 
their  glasses.  She  took  up  hers,  at  a  sign  from  them. 
It  was  full.  They  all  drank  together. 

She  had  a  mighty  effort  to  swallow  hers.  When  she 
had  succeeded,  she  made  a  wry  face,  and  tasted  the  stuff 
gingerly.  She  had  never  drunk  coca  cola  that  tasted 
like  that  before.  The  others  smiled  naively.  She  felt 
strange.  She  raised  her  hands  to  her  head.  It  felt 
stranger  still.  She  wondered  at  such  a  strange  feeling 
after  a  drink  of  something  she  was  fond  of?  She  had 
drunk  as  many  as  a  half  dozen  bottles  a  day,  and  as 
many  as  three  bottles  in  an  hour.  But  three  bottles 
had  never  any  effect;  while  now,  her  head  was  whirling 
terribly.  Everything  about  her  swam.  She  saw  the 
others  smiling,  and  then  she  heard  herself  talking  and 
laughing;  but  she  was  not  aware  of  what  she  was  saying. 

It  was  perhaps  an  hour  later,  or  it  might  have  been 
only  a  half,  but  she  was  on  the  street.  She  was  trying 
to  walk,  but  apparently  she  was  not  succeeding,  for  the 
man  she  had  run  from  was  supporting  her.  He  had  his 
arm  about  her  waist;  while  his  free  hand  held  both  of 
hers.  She  was  not  talking  now.  She  was  resting.  Her 
neck  was  limp.  Presently  they  turned  into  another 
place.  She  did  not  know  where.  Before  them  raised 
another  flight  of  stairs,  and  up  this  they  walked — that  is, 


406  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

he  did  and  almost  carried  her.  A  full  minute  it  took 
before  they  reached  the  top.  An  old  woman  met  them. 
Mildred  saw  her  for  a  brief  moment,  and  recalled  that 
she  resembled  the  one  where  she  had  a  room. 

"My  wife  is  sick,"  she  heard  the  man  say,  "is  sick. 
I  wish  to  get  a  room." 

"His  wife?"  she  repeated,  but  that  was  all.  Dark 
ness  was  all  about  her  now;  but  the  man  repeated  his 
words,  and  at  the  same  time  handed  the  old  woman  a 
half  dollar.  A  moment  later  a  door  closed  behind  them, 
and  the  next  a  key  turned. 

But  Mildred  Latham  didn't  hear  it. 

The  old  woman  looked  after  them  a  moment,  as  she 
rubbed  the  new  coin  in  her  palm.  She  raised  it  to  her 
lips  and  kissed  it  with  a  smack.  She  regarded  the  door 
of  the  room  in  which  they  had  disappeared,  and  then 
she  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughing. 

"My  wife — sick — Hell!"    And  went  about  her  duties. 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

Midnight,  December  Thirty-first 

Wilson  Jacobs  sat  in  his  study,  gazing  across  the  room 
at  a  clock.  It  "  tick-tocked  "  as  it  always  had.  The 
minute  hand  slipped  from  notch  to  notch.  There  was 
nothing  whatever  wrong  with  it.  It  was  a  good  clock. 
As  he  gazed  at  it,  he  recalled  that  in  the  years  it  had 
stuck  to  the  wall  there,  it  had  never  stopped;  it  had 
never  varied  from  standard  city  time  more  than  a  minute 
or  two  during  those  years.  And  yet  he  watched  the 
clock  as  though  it  were  something  strange;  something 
uncanny;  something  that  spelled  his  end. 

For  it  was,  and  it  marked  the  failure  of  his  great 
effort. 

In  a  few  hours  now  that  clock  would  show  another 
year,  for  it  was  the  night  of  December  thirty-first. 

In  a  few  hours,  it  would  tell  him,  as  it  had  told  him 
before,  that  a  new  year  had  come.  Yes.  But  this  year 
it  would  tell  him  more.  How  much  more?  It  was  hard 
to  estimate.  He  made  no  effort  to  do  so.  He  had  already 
done  that  in  the  past  few  days — the  days  he  would 
always  remember  as  the  darkest  in  his  life  of  hope. 

A  noise  in  the  other  room  came  to  his  ears.  It  was  a 
sigh.  It  was  Constance,  and  he  was  sorry  for  her.  Yes, 
Constance  had  hoped  until  the  last  minute  that  he 
would  succeed.  But  he  had  failed.  .  .  . 

Vainly  he  struggled  in  the  great  northeast,  to  secure 
those  thousands  to  complete  the  amount  necessary.  He 
had  gone  from  town  to  town.  The  people  were  kind; 
they  were  considerate,  and  they  listened  patiently; 
while  he  waxed  eloquent  and  forceful  in  his  appeal  for 
this  great  purpose.  He  met  the  nicest  people  he  had 
ever  met — he  knew  that.  So  refined,  and  how  much 
they  appreciated  his  great  cause,  was  shown  in  every 

407 


408  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

town,^  large  or  small.  They  took  him  through  many  of 
the  buildings.  They  were  perfect  pictures,  and  the 
management  was  the  best.  The  per  cent  of  people  who 
could  not  read  or  write  in  those  parts,  did  not  include 
any  of  the  native  born.  He  had  never,  he  recalled  this 
now  strangely,  met  people  who  were  so  courteous.  He 
had  been  so  long  in  Dixie,  and,  therefore,  accustomed  to 
the  country  there,  that  he  found  it  hard  to  believe  that 
white  people  could  be  so  courteous  to  a  Negro.  True, 
but  they  held  to  their  money.  They  shook  their  heads 
and  pointed  across  the  water — and  he  knew. 

He  had  raised  less  than  three  thousand  dollars.  He 
lacked  almost  twenty-five  thousand  of  having  the  proper 
amount  when  he  returned  home. 

His  sister  met  him  with  a  kiss.  She  looked  hopefully 
into  his  eyes  at  the  same  moment,  and  knew  he  had 
failed.  So  they  had  said  nothing  about  it.  Others  came 
in  as  soon  as  they  learned  he  had  returned,  and  it  was 
with  a  heavy  heart  that  he  told  them  the  result. 

"Well,"  said  the  professor  of  the  colored  high  school, 
"you  made  a  brave  fight,  Reverend.  Yes,  you  made  a 
brave  fight.  More  than  ten  thousand  dollars  in  such  a 
short  time  is  going  some.  You  beat  Grantville  by  twice 
the  amount,  and  did  it  in  one-third  the  time." 

"By  the  way,  Doctor,"  said  a  mail  clerk,  as  he  was 
passing  out.  He  stopped,  and  lighting  a  cigar,  continued : 
"What  ever  became  of  that  young  lady  who  played  at 
the  church,  and  who  started  the  cash  subscription?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  professor,  "I  have  intended  to  ask 
you  myself." 

"My  friends,"  said  Wilson,  "it  is  the  strangest  thing 
I  ever  knew;  but  we  have  not  seen  that  young  lady 
since  the  day  you  were  here — in  fact,  we  have  not  seen 
her  since  she  left  the  church  that  Sunday." 

"Indeed!"   both  exclaimed.     "That  is  strange!" 

"The  strangest  thing,  I  should  say,"  he  declared. 
They  spoke  of  it  at  some  length,  and  then  they  took 
their  leave.  Others  had  come,  and  made  it  harder  for 
him  to  tell.  Words  of  consolation  were  given  by  all, 
which  made  it  still  harder. 


MIDNIGHT  DECEMBER  THIRTY-FIRST    409 

He  arose  after  a  time,  and  walked  back  and  forth  across 
the  room.  He  thought  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  in  a  northern 
city  for  colored  men,  and  where  he  had  stopped.  Such 
a  delightful  place  it  had  been.  There  was  a  pool  hall, 
a  cafe,  a  barber  shop,  a  complete  gymnasium,  a  swimming 
pool,  a  reading  room  with  piles  of  the  latest  magazines; 
in  fact,  there  was  everything  to  keep  young  men  out  of 
bad  company,  and,  at  the  same  time,  provided  for  them 
a  place  for  clean,  manly  sport.  He  had  stopped  there 
three  days,  and  during  that  time  he  had  observed  the 
great  good  it  was  doing  the  young  Negro  men  of  that 
city.  The  Negro  population  was  not  one-fourth  that  of 
this  town,  and  still  the  schools  there  were  the  best; 
while  almost  everything  in  the  way  of  public  con 
veniences  was  open  to  the  black  people.  If  the  Y.  M.  C. 
A.  could  be  of  such  great  good  in  a  community  of  that 
sort,  words,  figures,  estimates,  all  were  inadequate  to 
describe  what  a  great  benefit  it  would  be  to  this  town. 

And,  until  the  last  day  he  did  not  despair.  He  hoped 
and  he  worked.  "The  administration  has  balled  the 
financial  situation  up  so  badly,  that  it  is  useless  to  seek 
subscriptions  for  anything,"  one  had  told  him. 

"A  million  and  more  dollars  he  has  given  away,"  said 
the  secretary  of  a  millionaire  he  had  consulted.  "Yes, 
I  will  arrange  an  appointment,"  but  from  the  way  he 
said  it,  he  was  sure  it  would  do  no  good. 

"Crime  and  evil  environments  have  undermined  the 
foundations  of  our  society;  those  people,  for  whom  a 
million  men  went  to  battle  fifty  years  ago  and  freed, 
have  reached  a  place  in  our  American  society,  where  it  is 
the  greatest  mistake  of  a  decade  that  they  are  not  pro 
vided  with  better  surroundings."  He  said  this  time  and 
again,  and  the  people  heard  him  through,  but  in  the 
end  it  was  the  same. 

By  some  he  was  greatly  encouraged.  If  the  gift  of  the 
Jew  could  be  extended  a  year,  all  would  be  well,  he  was 
sure;  but  that  had  been  settled. 

"I  am  asking  you  for  assistance,  because  we  have  at 
our  disposal  three-fourths  of  the  amount  necessary; 
but,  without  your  assistance  in  this,  this  three-fourths 
reverts  back  to  those  who  have  offered  it." 


410  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"The  country  is  in  a  bad  shape/'  and  they  pointed 
again  across  the  water. 

And  now  he  had  returned,  and  had  to  admit  to  himself 
and  the  others  that  he  had  failed.  He  forgot  his  own 
desire;  he  wanted  the  association  for  the  great  good  it 
would  do  his  people. 

He  seated  himself,  and  mechanically  his  eyes  sought 
the  clock  again.  It  tick-tocked  the  minutes  away,  and 
the  minutes  became  hours,  and  every  hour  drew  him 
near  the  end.  If  he  could  present  twenty-five  thousand 
dollars  to  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  by  twelve  o'clock  that  night, 
it  would  be  saved. 

Suddenly  it  occurred  to  him  to  go  into  the  street  and 
walk  about  for  a  time.  Maybe  he  could  forget  it.  He 
picked  up  his  hat,  that  he  had  thrown  on  the  floor  in  his 
absentmindedness,  and  drawing  on  his  overcoat,  made 
his  way  thither.  It  was  a  crisp  night,  and  the  chill,  as 
he  struck  the  street,  made  him  quicken  his  steps,  and  he 
walked  briskly  in  the  direction  of  the  river. 

He  observed  with  a  start,  presently,  that  he  was  going 
in  the  same  direction  and  the  same  street,  he  had  taken 
before  going  north.  The  incident  and  the  words  he  had 
overheard  came  back  to  him,  and  he  thought  of  Mildred 
with  a  pang  of  the  heart.  "I  wish  I  could  see  her  now," 
he  said;  and  then,  in  the  next  breath,  he  said  no.  "I 
would  have  to  tell  her  that  I  had  failed,  after  her  kind 
words.  She  said  I  would  succeed.  Yes,  she  said  that— 
and  meant  it."  He  walked  on,  and  finally  fell  to  talking 
to  himself  aloud. 

"Yes,  Wilson  Jacobs,  with  all  you  have  been  through, 
you  have  come  to  this  in  the  end.  You've  failed."  And 
then  something  somewhere  in  his  mind  said:  "Yes,  you 
have  failed,  but  don't  despair.  All  may  not  be  lost. 
As  long  as  there  is  life,  there  is  hope."  He  laughed  at 
this,  and  wondered  then  at  the  strange  caprice  of  the 
human  brain.  "Wonderful,"  he  commented.  "I  wonder 
how  did  man  ever  come  to  be.  In  the  years  when  he  was 
wild,  that  was  different.  But  now  he  is  becoming  so 
wise,  that  almost  miracles  are  accomplished.  He  con 
tinues  to  grow  wiser  as  the  years  go  by,  until  I  wonder 
what  it  will  all  come  to  in  the  end." 


MIDNIGHT  DECEMBER  THIRTY-FIRST    411 

By  now  he  had  reached  the  place  where  he  overheard 
the  voices  of  a  few  weeks  before.  It  was  dark.  Not  a 
soul  nor  a  sound  came  from  within.  He  stood  where  he 
had  heard  the  voices,  but  no  voices  came  to  him  that 
night.  He  presently  retraced  his  footsteps.  He  could, 
at  least,  be  home  and  comfort  his  sister.  She  could  not 
be  allowed  to  be  alone  while  the  old  year  died  and  the 
new  sprang  into  being.  He  dragged  himself  along  in  an 
aimless  fashion,  not  hurrying.  As  he  figured  in  his 
mind,  he  had  yet  two  hours. 

When  he  arrived  at  the  house  and  entered,  he  resumed 
his  seat  in  the  study,  and,  since  there  was  nothing  else 
to  do,  he  resumed  his  task  of  watching  the  clock.  Not 
as  much  time  was  left  as  he  thought  for.  It  was  now 
almost  eleven.  In  one  hour  and  a  few  minutes,  it  was 
goodby  to  seventy-five  thousand  dollars  for  the  purpose 
of  building  and  establishing  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  for  the  black 
youth  of  the  city. 

He  heard  Constance  in  the  other  room,  breathing 
heavily,  and  wondered  whether  she  was  sick.  He  watched 
the  clock  now  as  a  man  who  waits  for  the  death  knell. 
Time  seemed  to  go  slowly,  he  thought.  He  would  call 
his  sister  when  the  clock  reached  a  quarter  of.  Yes, 
and  together  they  would  watch,  watch,  watch.  He 
dozed  off  to  sleep.  Suddenly  he  awoke  with  a  start. 
He  had  slept  the  old  year  out,  was  his  first  thought. 
Then  he  looked  at  the  clock.  No,  not  quite.  He  rubbed 
his  eyes. 

And  then  he  listened.  Had  he  heard  someone,  or 
something?  "Of  course  not,"  he  muttered  half  aloud. 
"This  game  is  telling  on  me,"  and  he  raised  his  hand 
and  grasped  his  head.  And  still  he  felt  something  had 
happened.  He  arose  and  walked  back  and  forth  across 
the  room,  and  then  sat  down  again.  As  he  did  so,  his 
eyes  saw  the  clock. 

It  was  now  eleven  thirty-five. 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

Into  the  Infinite  Long  Ago 

"That  is  the  Ponca,  dear/'  said  Sidney,  taking  her 
hand,  as  they  walked  up  the  road. 

"But  you  did  not  call  it  that  in  your  story,  Sidney," 
said  Mildred,  squeezing  his  hand  fondly.  "  I  have  never 
been  on  its  banks.  When  are  you  going  to  take  me 
there?"  she  now  said  poutingly. 

He  placed  his  free  hand  under  her  chin,  and  dared  her 
to  look  into  his  face  with  such  a  frown.  She  failed,  and 
laughed  instead. 

"But  I  want  to  go,"  she  cried,  swinging  the  hand  she 
held  back  and  forth.  "Won't  you  take  me  soon — take 
me  today?"  she  begged. 

He  drew  her  to  him,  placed  his  arms  about  her,  and 
kissed  her  fondly. 

A  moment  later  they  walked  down  the  wide  road. 

"And  this  is  the  Rosebud  Country,"  she  said,  allowing 
her  eyes  to  stretch  over  a  land  to  which  she  saw  no  end. 

"Yes,  this  is  the  Rosebud  Country,"  he  said  contentedly. 

She  regarded  him  a  moment  closely,  before  she  spoke. 
In  that  look,  she  appeared  to  see  him  as  she  had  never 
seen  him  before.  This  man  was  her  husband,  and  he 
had  spent  the  prime  years  of  his  life  in  this  land  to  the 
northwest.  He  loved  it,  and  now  she  would  love  it, 
because  he  did.  In  the  years  gone  by  he  had  hoped — he 
had  built  his  hopes  here,  and  into  that  life  had  come 
another.  After  that  things  had  been  different.  Yes, 
things  had  been  different,  and  that  was  why  she  was 
here.  But  she  was  happy.  Yes,  she  was  happy.  He 
was  too,  so  that  made  her  more  happy. 

"See  those  rocks  on  yonder  hill?"  she  heard  him  say, 
and  she  allowed  her  eyes  to  follow  the  direction  of  his 
finger. 

412 


INTO  THE  INFINITE  LONG  AGO          413 

"Yes,  and  oh  Sidney,  I  gaze  each  day  at  them,  and 
at  the  smaller  one  just  this  side  of  it.  Tell  me  of  them, 
and  of  the  little  one,  too." 

And  as  they  strolled  together  down  this  prairie  road 
to  the  valley  of  the  Ponca,  Sidney  Wyeth,  her  husband, 
told  her  the  story  of  the  two  hills. 

"Many,  I  know  not  how  many  years  ago,  yon  hill 
was  the  scene  of  many  a  crime,  so  the  squaws  told  me." 
And  he  sighed,  as  he  seemed  to  look  back  over  the  time. 
She  placed  her  hand  now  in  the  curve  of  his  arm  and 
held  it  closely.  It  seemed  to  satisfy  him,  and  with  a 
glance  at  her,  and  a  far  away  look  in  his  eyes,  he  pro 
ceeded  to  tell  the  legend  of  the  hills. 

"It  was  before  the  days  of  the  mighty  Sitting  Bull, 
and  Red  Cloud,  too;  before  the  days  of  the  cowboy — and 
even  the  squaw  man.  It  was  in  the  days  of  Chief  Stinking 
Eye,  who  was  the  bravest — so  the  Indians  say — of  all  the 
great  Sioux  warriors.  Stinking  Eye  and  Chief  Bettleypn 
loved  one  and  the  same  maiden — the  daughter  of  Chief 
Go-Catch-The-Enemy. 

"  Go-Catch-The-Enemy  was  a  great  chief,  and  owned 
all  the  land  in  what  is  called  the  Bull  Creek  district  now, 
while  Bettleyon  lived  with  the  tribe  of  his  father  in  a 
part  of  this  country  far  to  the  west,  in  that  part  which 
is  now  called  the  Cottonwood  Creek  district. 

"  This  vast  tribe  of  red  men  lived  by  hunting  principally; 
but  their  women  discovered  that  crops  could  be  grown  in 
this  soil,  and,  with  rude  plows  and  hoes,  and  whatever 
they  had,  they  dug  little  patches  in  the  soil  along  the 
creek,  and  in  springtime,  they  planted  these  patches  in 
maize  and  beans;  so,  when  the  zero  weather  of  winter 
made  the  wigwams  the  most  comfortable  place,  they 
kept  from  starving  by  feeding  thereon.  Of  course,  that 
was  in  the  day  when  the  buffalo  was  plentiful,  and  they 
had  meat;  but  with  cornmeal  this  was  made  more 
delicious.  So,  in  this  way,  the  Sioux  Indians  came 
through  many  cold  winters,  and  went  to  war  again  in 
the  early  springtime;  that  is,  the  men  did,  while  the 
women  repeated  the  task  each  year,  of  planting  the  patches 
to  Squaw  corn  or  maize. 


414  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"How  they  fought,  and  bled  and  died,  is  a  matter  not 
trivial.  About  this  time,  there  came  a  man.  He  rode  a 
pony,  and  he  had  on  boots — not  moccasins — and  he 
wore  a  hat  on  his  head.  He  carried  a  rifle  in  his  hand, 
and  that  was  the  first  time  these  red  men  had  seen  such 
a  weapon.  Strange,  as  it  was  to  them,  he  talked  fluently 
in  their  tongue,  and  withal  his  cleverness,  he  became  a 
favorite  among  the  many.  Before  long  he  was,  in  reality, 
chief  over  all.  From  the  Niobrara  across  the  Keya 
Paha,  including  the  Ponca,  the  Mastadon,  on  to  the 
Whetstone  and  Landing  Creek  and  to  the  White  River, 
he  ruled.  They  named  him  Rain-In-The-Face,  and  he 
•made  them  all  believe  that  he  was  next  to  the  great 
white  father. 

"There  came  a  day  when  he  made  love  to  Go-Catch- 
The-Enemy's  daughter,  Winnetkha,  which  was  her  name, 
and  she  was  said  to  have  been  the  most  beautiful  daughter 
of  the  Sioux  Indians  the  Rosebud  had  ever  known. 

"This,  as  you  might  expect,  made  enemies  of  Young 
Chief  Bettleyon  and  also  Chief  Stinking  Eye.  But  the 
white  man  was  shrewd.  He  thought  at  night,  when  all 
was  quiet  and  the  Indians  slept.  So  the  mornings  were 
used  in  carrying  out  the  thoughts  of  the  night  before, 
while  the  Indians  had  to  think  of  war. 

"So,  before  any  knew,  the  white  man  had  made 
Winnetkha  his  own,  and  took  her  to  live  in  a  real  house, 
that  he  had  made  the  Indians  build  for  him,  of  straight 
ash  logs,  with  bark  peeled  off  and  hewn  on  the  inside, 
until  the  white  wood  glistened  like  silver. 

"That  was  the  beginning  of  the  breeds,  and  after  that, 
many  became  crossed  and  have  not  stopped  until  recently; 
but  Bettleyon  and  Stinking  Eye  never  got  over  it,  and 
when  the  pale  face  was  spending  his  time  herding  the 
cattle  that  were  now  replacing  the  buffalo,  they  in 
trigued  cruelly  against  him. 

"Winnetkha  overheard  their  plan,  and  informed  him 
when  he  came  from  the  herd  that  night,  and  so  he  kept 
watch.  They  came  late,  with  a  band  of  picked  men  and 
loyal  followers,  and  began  at  once  to  make  war  on  the 
big  house.  All  night  they  fought,  but  the  Indians  were 


INTO  THE  INFINITE  LONG  AGO          415 

shrewd  this  time,  and  fought  from  long  range.  They 
shot  at  the  house  with  arrows  that  were  heated  red  hot 
on  the  point,  until  at  last  they  set  it  on  fire.  This,  of 
course,  drove  the  white  man  and  his  squaw  out.  They 
managed  to  escape  and  reached  safety  ere  they  were 
discovered.  But  the  white  man  was  angry,  and  he 
swore  to  have  revenge,  so,  loading  his  rifle,  he  saddled 
his  horse  and  came  down  single-handed  on  the  Indians 
and  killed  many,  and  routed  the  rest. 

"He  was  not  bothered  any  more  for  years  afterward, 
but  the  Indian,  you  know,  never  forgets,  so,  one  day, 
when  he  was  grazing  his  herds  near  the  top  of  the  hill, 
he  looked  up  to  find  himself  almost  hemmed  in  by  the 
skulking  red  devils.  He  rushed  to  safety  behind  the 
rocks  at  the  top,  where  you  see  them.  Here  he  fought 
until  his  ammunition  was  exhausted,  and  he  was  without 
defense,  with  the  Indians  all  about  him. 

"And  it  was  then  that  he  looked  about  for  other 
weapons  of  defense,  and  discovered  a  den  of  rattlers. 
Then,  one  at  a  time,  he  allowed  the  Indians  to  approach 
him,  and  as  they  did  and  went  to  look  for  him,  they 
were  struck  in  the  face  by  a  rattler.  More  than  twenty 
were  bitten,  so  'tis  said,  and  more  than  half  died  from 
the  effects.  And  then  they  killed  him. 

"Old  Go-Catch-The-Enemy  made  war  on  them  after 
ward  and  a  reign  of  outlawry  began;  but  to  the  white 
man,  his  son-in-law,  he  gave  a  great  funeral,  and  did 
not  bury  him  on  a  tree  top,  where  buzzards  picked  the 
bones,  as  had  been  the  custom;  but  the  Indians  pre 
ferred  such  a  burial  rather  than  that  a  coyote  should 
dig  them  up  from  the  earth.  He  was  buried  on  the  top 
of  the  little  hill  to  the  side,  as  you  see,  with  stones  arranged 
about  him,  and  so  "deep  in  the  earth,  that  the  wolves 
never  bothered. 

"So,  that  is  the  legend  of  those  hills  that  you  see, 
and  they  are  the  land  mark.  Those  who  live  here  will 
not  soon  forget  it." 

They  stood  on  the  banks  of  the  Ponca  now,  and  listened 
to  the  happy  birds  that  filled  the  air  with  music  like 
thousands  of  little  bells.  As  they  stood,  arm  in  arm, 
they  appreciated  all  that  life  held  in  store  for  them. 


416  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

Suddenly  from  the  west  came  a  great  noise.  "Hark!" 
cried  the  husband.  "A  prairie  fire?  Of  course  not. 
The  settlers  made  that  impossible  long  since."  He 
looked  anxiously  in  the  direction  from  whence  came  the 
noise.  The  sun  could  not  be  seen,  and  everything  at 
once  grew  dark.  "A  tornado!"  cried  Sidney,  and, 
grabbing  his  wife,  he  started  to  fall  to  the  ground,  but 
too  late!  A  sudden  wind  seemed  to  pick  him  up,  and  a 
moment  later  whirled  him  into  the  air,  while  Mildred 
cried  out  in  agonizing  tones: 

"Sidney,  Sidney,  come  back,  come  back;  don't  leave 
me!"  But  on  he  flew,  with  the  wind  raising  him  higher 
and  higher  into  the  air,  while  she  moaned  until  she  felt 
her  heart  would  break.  Everything  was  so  dark  about 
her  that  she  could  not  see,  and  then,  suddenly  it  began 
to  clear.  Darkness  was  not  about  her,  for  overhead 
burned  an  electric  light.  She  lay  across  a  bed.  She 
stood  up  and  looked  about  her. 

Her  brain  throbbed  terribly,  while  she  tried  to  recall 
where  she  was,  and  then  slowly  it  all  came  back  to  her. 
Miss  Jones — the  visit  to  the  blind  tiger — a  bottle  of 
coca  cola — "Oh,  my  God!"  she  cried  in  piteous  tones. 
"I'm  lost!  I'm  lost!  I'm  lost!" 

She  rushed  to  the  door.  It  was  bolted.  She  paused  a 
moment  as  she  stood  by  it.  Where  had  he  gone!  She 
had  a  wa^ch  on  her  wrist;  she  looked  at  it.  She  had 
not  been  there  long.  She  recalled  looking  at  it  just 
before  drinking  the  stuff  in  the  glass.  That  was  exactly 
an  hour  before.  It  was  fully  a  half  hour  later  when  she 
had  been  brought  to  this  place.  But  where  was  the  man. 

She  looked  across  the  room  to  a  chair.  Over  the  back 
of  it  lay  the  overcoat  he  had  worn.  Then  it  became  clear 
to  her.  He  had  stepped  out  a  moment  to  get  something 
perhaps.  She  walked  to  the  door  quickly  and  tried  the 
knob.  It  was  locked  and  the  key  was  gone.  She  became 
frantic  as  she  ran  around  the  room.  She  tried  the  window 
again.  Useless.  Besides,  when  she  peeped  under 
the  shade,  it  was  too  far  to  the  ground.  She  stood 
dumbly  for  a  moment.  Presently,  mechanically,  she 
walked  to  a  dresser  that  stood  to  one  side,  and  peered 


INTO  THE  INFINITE  LONG  AGO          417 

in  the  glass  at  herself.  She  recoiled  when  she  saw  her 
face.  It  was  swollen,  and  her  eyes  looked  strange.  She 
could  not  believe  herself.  She  looked  again.  "Yes," 
she  whispered,  "this  is  //"  She  looked  away.  The  top 
of  the  dresser  was  covered  with  a  newspaper.  Mechanic 
ally  she  found  herself  looking  over  it.  It  was  not  a  city 
paper,  she  could  see,  so,  somewhat  curiously,  she  turned 
it  over  and  saw  the  front  page.  Her  eyes  chanced  to 
fall  on  an  article  two  columns  in  width.  She  read  a  few 
lines,  and  then,  with  a  muffled  cry,  she  staggered  back 
ward,  clutching  the  paper.  She  sought  the  chair  or  the 
bed — anything,  she  was  too  weak  to  stand  now.  But, 
ere  she  had  reached  either,  she  suddenly  stood  stiffly 
erect,  while  the  blood  seemed  to  freeze  in  her  veins. 

A  step  sounded  in  the  hallway,  and  a  moment  later, 
a  key  rattled  in  the  lock.    The  man  was  returning. 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

"Go  Brother!    In  God's  Name,  Go!" 

"I  am  truly  sorry  to  see  the  colored  people  of  this 
town  fail  in  their  effort  to  secure  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  for  their 
youth,"  said  the  secretary  of  the  white  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  as 
he  rested  his  elbows  for  a  moment  upon  the  cigar  case. 

"And  they  won't  get  it  after  all,"  said  a  young  man 
whose  father  had  given  five  hundred  dollars  to  the  cause. 
"They  certainly  need  something  of  the  kind.  The  crime 
and  condition  of  the  colored  people  of  the  southern 
states,  give  this  section  a  bad  name  in  the  eyes  of  the 
enlightened  world,"  he  commented,  lighting  a  cigarette 
and  sprawling  his  legs  in  front  of  him,  when  he  had  taken 
a  seat. 

"I  regret  it  more  because  that  fellow,  Wilson  Jacobs, 
the  secretary,  has  been  a  faithful  worker,  if  there  ever 
was  one,"  the  secretary  said  thoughtfully. 

"How  did  they  happen  to  fall  down  on  it?  I  under 
stand  that  the  white  association  has  subscribed  twenty- 
five  thousand  dollars?"  inquired  another. 

"So  did  a  Chicago  Jew,  and  likewise  seventeen  thousand 
dollars  were  subscribed  from  the  city  and  other  places, 
by  the  white  people;  but  only  ten  thousand  dollars  could 
be  raised  among  the  colored  people — or  rather,  only 
about  five  thousand.  He  secured  about  the  same  amount 
from  the  white  people  here  and  in  the  north." 

"I  met  that  fellow  down  here  one  day,  and  say!" 
exclaimed  another,  "he  impressed  me  as  much  as  any 
person  I  ever  met,  I  want  to  tell  you!" 

"How  did  they  ever  come  out  with  the  effort  over  at 
Grantville?"  inquired  another. 

"They  failed,"  said  the  secretary,  and  then  added: 
"The  gift  from  the  Jew  philanthropist  has  run  for  five 
years,  and  expires  tonight  at  twelve  o'clock."  So  saying, 

418 


"GO  BROTHER!    IN  GOD'S  NAME  GO!"    419 

all  eyes  sought  the  clock  that  hung  on  the  wall  above 
them. 

"They  have  only  a  few  minutes  left,  according  to  that," 
smiled  one. 

"Say,  wouldn't  it  be  a  sensation,  if  that  fellow  came 
tearing  in  here  at  one  minute  to  twelve,"  said  one,  and 
laughed.  The  others  joined  in,  but  the  secretary  did 
not  share  in  the  joke,  notwithstanding  that  it  was  not 
meant  to  be  depreciating. 

"If  he  should,"  said  the  secretary,  walking  from 
behind  the  case,  "I  am  authorized  to  acknowledge  the 
same,  and  the  colored  people  would  get  their  association. 
But,  of  course,  I  do  not  anticipate  such  miracles  tonight." 

A  moment  later,  they  all  filed  to  another  part  of  the 
building,  where  hundreds  were  gathered  to  watch  the 
old  year  out  and  the  new  in,  and  where  music  soon  made 
them  forget  the  subject  they  had  been  discussing. 

Twenty  minutes  of  the  year  was  left.  In  five  minutes 
Wilson  Jacobs  would  call  his  sister,  and  together  they 
would  watch.  But  the  new  year  would  bring  no  joy  to 
their  hearts.  It  meant  that  a  great  struggle  would  end 
in  failure.  He  watched  the  clock  by  the  minute.  It  was 
now  eleven  forty-one.  Nineteen  minutes  left. 

Presently  he  heard  a  light  footfall.  He  looked  up  and 
saw  his  sister  coming  toward  him.  She  looked  tired  and 
worn;  the  strain  she  had  been  laboring  under  was  plainly 
evident  in  her  face. 

She  came  straight  to  him.  What  was  it  that  made 
her  regard  him  as  she  did.  Had  she  seen,  in  these  last 
minutes,  how  much  it  hurt  him  to  have  to  pronounce  his 
great  effort  a  failure.  She  advanced  to  where  he  sat, 
and  impulsively  bent  over  and  kissed  him.  As  she 
raised  up,  both  pairs  of  eyes  saw  the  clock,  and  both 
pair  of  lips  murmured: 

"Eighteen  minutes  left."    And  then  his  lips  said: 

"Yes,  sister,  eighteen  minutes  left  to  raise  twenty-five 
thousand  dollars  for  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  for  our  people." 
He  lowered  his  head,  and  sighed  long  and  deeply.  She 
placed  her  hands  about  his  forehead ,  and  let  them  slip 
back  over  his  hair. 


420  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"My  poor  brother,  my  poor  brother !"  And  then,  for 
the  first  time  she  observed  a  package.  With  womanly 
curiosity,  she  inquired: 

"What  is  this,  Wilson?"  and  pointed  toward  it.  He 
sat  up  quickly  as  though  he  had  been  asleep. 

"That,"  he  replied,  blinking.  "Why,  I  don't  know. 
I  declare.  I  didn't  know  it  was  there."  He  was  thor 
oughly  awake  now,  as  well  as  curious. 

"Wonder  what  it  is,"  she  said,  curiously. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  breathed,  turning  the  package  over. 
"And  you  are  sure  you  didn't  put  it  there?" 

"Oh,  no,  but  I  am  curious  to  know  what  it  contains," 
and  she  turned  it  over,  while  her  face  lit  with  a  little 
smile  that  was  carefree.  He  saw  it,  and  said: 

"Why  dear,  if  it  will  please  you,  open  it  as  the  last 
thing  in  the  old  year." 

"Oh,  brother,  that  is  so  nice  of  you,"  and  she  took  the 
knife  he  handed  her,  opened  it,  and  quickly  cut  the 
strings.  A  package  was  enclosed,  tied  with  paper.  She 
pursued  the  task  of  cutting  strings,  and  then,  as  she 
unwrapped  the  paper  from  about  it  she  mused: 

"Oh,  I  wonder  what  it  can  be!"  It  was  open  now, 
and  two  pairs  of  eyes  opened  their  widest,  while  her 
voice  cried: 

"Wilson,  Wilson!  My  God!  It's  money!  It's  money 
to  save  the  Y.  M.C.A.  for  our  people! "  Both  now  regarded 
the  clock.  Fifteen  minutes  was  left  to  reach  the  Y.  M. 
C.  A.  building  thirteen  blocks  away!  It  was  she  who 
spoke: 

"Go  brother!    In  God's  name,  go!" 

Had  it  been  any  other  night  but  the  night  of  December 
thirty-first,  a  man  who  tore  wildly  down  the  middle  of 
the  street,  bareheaded,  and  with  a  woman  with  hair 
flowing  loosely  behind  her,  the  officers  on  duty  would 
surely  have  made  an  arrest.  But  as  it  was,  they  only 
smiled  amusedly,  as  they  remarked  a  new  freak  of  meeting 
the  new  year.  How  little  did  any  feel  or  know  that  upon 
that  wild  run,  depended  one  hundred  thousand  dollars 
for  the  salvation  of  thousands  of  black  youth,  until  the 
end  of  time.  .  .  . 


"GO  BROTHER!    IN  GOD'S  NAME  GO!"    421 

The  papers  carried  the  account  in  large  headlines  the 
following  morning. 

"REVEREND  WILSON  JACOBS  SPRINGS  A  COUP 

"Energetic  worker  and  secretary  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  for 
the  colored  people  raised  twenty-five  thousand  dollars, 
and  completed  the  condition  of  the  association  at  two 
minutes  of  twelve  o'clock  last  night.  Two  minutes 
later,  more  than  seventy-five  thousand  dollars  would 
have  been  unavailable  for  the  purpose." 

In  a  column  and  a  half,  the  people  of  the  city  and 
elsewhere  read  the  account  of  the  wonderful  victory  that 
meant  so  much  for  the  colored  people  of  the  city,  of 
which  the  population  was  two-fifths.  It  was  likewise  a 
victory  for  the  white  people,  all  of  whom  could  appreciate 
the  fact.  In  securing  the  same,  the  city,  with  the  un 
enviable  reputation  of  being  one  of  the  most  criminal 
cities  in  the  world,  now  took  first  place  in  the  line  for 
uplift  among  the  colored  people,  as  it  would  be  the  only 
city  in  the  south  to  have  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  for  its  black 
population. 

The  fact  made  thousands  of  black  people  buy  the 
blind  tigers  and  drugstores  out  of  whiskey  on  New 
Years  day.  It  was  their  greatest  day  since  freedom! 

In  Grantville,  everybody  wondered  how  they  had  done 
it,  and  in  Effingham  and  Attalia;  and  then  the  people 
of  the  fortunate  city  wondered  too,  after  their  excitement 
had  cooled  and  they  could  think.  Wilson  Jacobs  won 
dered  likewise,  and  so  did  Constance.  Everybody 
wondered. 

But  they  never  knew. 

END  OF  BOOK  THREE 


BOOK  IV 

CHAPTER  ONE 

"  'Scriminatin'  'G'inst  Nigga's" 

"Do  you  read  d'  papers?" 

"A'  co'se  I  does.  Wha'  kind-a  'sinuations  y're  tryin' 
t'  pass  on  me,  nigga?"  said  one,  whose  feelings  were,  at 
that  moment,  very  much  injured. 

The  heavy  train  pulled  cumbersomely  to  the  summit, 
and  stopped  a  moment,  while  the  switch  engine  attached 
to  the  rear,  was  uncoupled.  A  moment  later,  it  con 
tinued  on  its  way. 

Miles  to  the  rear  and  below  Emngham  it  struggled  for 
one  brief  moment,  and  then,  as  a  curve  in  the  mountain 
was  being  made,  it  finally  disappeared  from  view. 

Sidney  Wyeth  settled  back  in  his  seat  in  the  front  end 
of  the  Jim  Crow  car,  and,  with  his  feet  spread  over  the 
seat  ahead,  prepared  himself  languidly  to  enjoy  the 
four  hundred  odd  miles  that  were  before  him. 

Only  half  a  car,  possibly  not  that  much,  was  given 
over  to  the  use  of  the  colored  passengers.  It  was  as 
comfortable  as  the  other  part  of  the  train,  however,  so 
no  discrimination  was  evident.  The  portion  given  to 
them  was,  of  course,  next  to  the  baggage  car;  while  far 
to  the  rear,  as  he  observed  when  the  train  rounded  a  curve, 
fully  eight  or  ten  cars  were  more  or  less  filled  with  white 
passengers.  About  half  the  number  were  Pullmans. 

"Den  'f  y'  read  d'  papers,  yu  autta  know  'bout  dis 
'scrimination  dat  is  a-goin'  on  up  dere  in  Washington," 
he  overheard  between  three  or  four  Negroes  a  few  seats 
to  the  rear. 

"Ah  reads  th'  papers  eve'  day;  but  I  'on  know  wha' 
you  's  a-drivin'  at,"  contended  another. 

"Den  you  do'n  read  d'  papers  den,  case  all  dis  accurred 

422 


"  'SCRIMINATIN'  'G'INST  NIGGA'S"       423 

up  dere  las'  fall,  'n'  dere  was  a  big  awgument  'bout  it, 
'n'  all  de  no'then  papers  done  took  sides  agi'nst  d'  presi 
dent." 

"Aw,  sho!"  cried  the  second  speaker  now  quickly. 
"Ah  knows  what  youah  talkin'  'bout  now,  sho  thing!" 
And  he  nodded  his  head  understandingly.  The  other 
observed  him  nevertheless,  dubiously,  but  was  patient 
while  the  other  enlightened  him. 

"Yeh;  you  'ferrin'  t'  dat  bill  dey  had  up  dare  about 
'scriminatin'  ag'inst  nigga's.  M-m.  Yeh.  Des  'ere  bill 
was  a  pretest  from — well,  somebody  up  no'th,  a'-cose; 
but  it  's  to  make  dem  stop  havin'  nigga's  eatin'  in  d1 
kitchen,  dat  us  it,  sho,"  and  he  looked  about  him  into 
the  faces  of  the  listeners. 

The  first  speaker,  confident  at  first  that  he  was  going 
to  show  the  other  up  as  not  knowing  as  much  as  he, 
looked  a  trifle  disappointed;  but  he  didn't  grant  the 
other  the  benefit  of  the  doubt. 

The  second  speaker  went  on: 

"Yeh,  I  don  read  all  'bout  dat.  Yu  see,"  he  explained 
very  ostentatiously,  "dare  was  'n'  editor,  a  sma't  nigga 
frum  Boston  who  had  done  been  t'  school  'n'  graduated 
frum  college,  and  knowed  ebreting,  'n'  'e  'as  a  bill  down 
dare  t'  Washington,  'n'  eve'  body  says  t'  'im:  'Why 
'on'  you  take  dat  bill  up  'n'  make  d'  president  sign  it!' 
So  dis  nigga  'e  finally  git  mad  'n'  takes  it  'roun'  to  de 
president's  office,  'n'  shows  it  to'im  'n'  tole  him:  'Sign 
it!'  Now,  dy  president  he  look  at  it,  and  read  it  over  a 
little.  Then  'e  jumped  up  outer  'is  chaeh,  'n'  says: 
'I  won'  sign  tha'  bill!'  'N'  dey  says  'e  got  awful  mad, 
'n'  sto'med  aroun'  fo'  'n'  houh. 

"So  dis  Boston  nigga  'e  got  mad  den,  too,  'n'  den  'e 
got  du'  president  tole.  Says  'e:  'I  voted  fo'  yu;  'n'  so 
did  a  Iptta  udder  crazy  nigga's,  'n'  now  we  'us  about  t' 
be  drivin  outta  du  race,  kase  why?  So  now,  I  dun  come 
all  d'  way  heah  frum  Boston  wi'  dis  bill  that  I  wants  you 
t'  sign,  t'  make  dese  secretaries  quit  fo'cin'  nigga's  t' 
eat  in  d'  kitchen!'  Den  du  president  'e  got  madder 
still,  'n'  wants  t'  fight.  But  they  pa'ts  'm,  but  d'  president 
'lows:  'I  won'  sign  dat  bill,  I  won'  sign  it!'  'E  stamps  'is 


424  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

foot  den,  'e  be  so  mad.  But  dis  nigga,  'e  ahV  no  southern 
darkey  'n'  'e  stans  pat,  an  'monstrates  dat  'e  will  sign  it, 
ah  dare  won'  no  mo'  nigga's  t'  vote  fo'  'im  fo'  president. 
Well,  du'  president  'e  is  so  mad  dat  he  sto'm,  'n'  finally 
says:  'I  won'  sign  dat  bill,  I  won'  sign  hit!  Befo'  I'll 
sign  that  bill — 'n'  'e  strikes  'is  desk  wi'  'is  fist — Til  qui' 
mah  job!'" 

"But/'  said  another,  who,  up  to  this  time,  had  taken 
no  part  in  the  harrangue,  "the  president,  ah  taut,  ain' 
axed  t'  sign  a  bill  ontell  it  had  been  acted  on  by  congress." 

The  others  looked  at  each  other  now,  in  some  surprise. 
Then  they  observed  the  speaker,  in  a  manner  that  was 
serene  with  contempt,  for  his  apparent  ignorance.  (?) 
Then  the  second  speaker  said: 

"Aw,  dis  bill,  y'  see,  'us  a  secret.  Dey  wa'nt  but 
three  people  knowed  'bout  it.  'N'  dey  was  du  editor 
and  du  president — 'n' — ,"  he  was  thoughtful  now,  as  he 
meditated  for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  "Roosevelt!" 

By  this  time  the  train  had  gotten  under  way,  and  it 
thundered  on  its  way  southward,  down  among  the  scrub 
pines  that  stood  back  from  the  single  track.  Croppings 
of  iron,  Wyeth  observed,  reached  far  to  the  south  of 
Effingham,  while  the  country,  as  far  as  soil  was  concerned, 
was  a  desolate  lot  of  red  clay  and  rock.  The  train  tore 
through  numerous  little  towns,  consisting  of  a  number  of 
shacks,  built  mostly  of  plain  boards,  standing  straight 
up  and  down,  with  smaller  boards  nailed  on  the  cracks. 
Before  some  of  these  shanties  played  white  children, 
whose  appearance  showed  the  life  they  lived,  which  was 
apparently  that  of  poverty;  while  at  some  distance,  he  also 
observed  were  other  houses,  not  as  respectable  as  those 
behind  which  white  children  played,  and  occupied  by 
Negroes.  Little  patches  of  cleared  land  that  was  scratched 
over,  denoted  that  agriculture  was  attempted  in  even 
this  poor  soil.  By  the  slenderness  of  the  dead  stalks,  he 
could  see  that  it  would  take  many  acres  to  produce  a 
bale  of  cotton. 

On  to  the  south  the  train  hurried,  and  as  they  neared 
the  capital  of  the  state,  he  observed,  with  some  encourage 
ment,  that  the  soil  grew  a  little  deeper;  but,  at  the  best, 


'  'SCRIMINATIN'  'G'INST  NIGGA'S"       425 

would  have  been  laughed  at  back  in  the  Rosebud  Country. 
And  the  same  sight  met  his  gaze  all  along.  This  had 
once  been  a  proud,  aristocratic  state;  but,  he  wondered 
if  it  became  so  by  the  returns  of  crops  from  such  poor 
land.  Yet  he  was  seeing  only  a  small  part  of  it  from 
the  car  window. 

A  cotton  gin  greeted  the  traveler  at  almost  every 
station;  while  everywhere  the  scrub  pines  and  rocks 
were  largely  in  evidence.  If  all  the  state  was  like  what 
he  saw  from  the  car  window,  with  the  exception  of  that 
which  lay  about  the  capital  for  a  distance  of  fifteen  or 
twenty  miles,  he  scarcely  wondered  that  so  many  Negroes 
preferred  the  city,  where  wages  were  sufficient  to  give 
them  something  in  life. 

It  was  a  cold,  disagreeable  day  in  the  beginning; 
but,  as  afternoon  wore  on,  he  was  cheered  to  see  the 
elements  clear,  and  the  air  become  warmer. 

The  highlands  were  behind  them  now,  and  had  given 
place  to  great  trees,  while  back  from  the  track  log  houses 
interspersed  the  forest  here  and  there.  The  further 
south  the  train  pulled,  the  deeper  became  the  swamp, 
while  the  trees  towered  to  heights  that  could  not  be 
fully  estimated  from  the  car  window.  The  atmosphere, 
which  had  before  been  dry,  was  now  charged  with  a 
peculiar  dampness,  that  seemed  to  rise  from  the  earth, 
which  melted  away  from  the  tracks. 

After  many  miles,  in  which  the  afternoon  sun  barely 
penetrated  the  deep  forest,  the  train  passed  through 
another  pine  district.  The  trees  were  slender  and  scat 
tered,  while  thousands  of  stumps  stood  lowly  and  darkly 
about.  As  he  looked  closer,  he  saw  that  among  the 
standing  timber,  at  the  base,  were  little  buckets.  He 
made  inquiries  and  was  told  that  this  was  where  turpen 
tine  came  from.  He  laughed  then  at  his  ignorance. 
He  had  forgotten  entirely  that  it  was  the  south  which 
produced  the  greatest  amount  of  this  article. 

"And  when  they  have  tapped  the  tree  for  such  a 
purpose,  I  suppose  it  is  of  no  further  good  but  to  be 
cut  down?" 

"They  cut  them  down  at  once,  and  make  most  of 


426  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

them  into  cord  wood/'  replied  the  person  of  whom  he 
asked. 

"Now  these  people/'  said  Wyeth,  pointing  to  the 
black  people,  "they  attend  to  the  most  of  it?" 

"Yes;  the  women  to  the  turpentine,  and  the  men  to 
the  timber." 

The  train  had  now  come  into  a  land  of  swamp.  As 
far  as  eyes  could  see,  there  was  a  profusion  of  vines  and 
palm  leaves.  He  wondered  if  that  was  where  the  palm 
leaf  fans  came  from.  If  so,  the  harvest  was  abundant. 
For  miles  and  miles  the  swamp  was  thick  with  them,  and 
they  appeared  to  be  all  of  fan  size.  Water  stood  a  foot 
deep,  while  the  track  rose,  perhaps,  upwards  of  four  or 
five  feet  above  it  all.  The  trees  were  a  strange  variety 
to  him,  while  nowhere  for  miles  did  it  appear  possible 
for  anyone  to  live.  The  mosquitoes,  he  judged,  must 
surely  find  this  place  a  haven  when  the  days  were  warm; 
while  fever  could  fairly  thrive. 

Now  the  train  had  left  the  deeper  forests,  and  was 
rolling  across  numerous  trestles  that  stood  high  above 
the  water.  Great  lagoons  were  crossed,  where  large 
birds,  sea  gulls  and  others  not  so  large,  flew  about  un 
disturbed.  Miles  away  at  last,  rose  church  spires  and 
ship  hoists,  and  he  then  knew  they  were  approaching  a 
city  that  was  a  great  seaport. 

A  half  hour  later,  they  stood  in  the  station.  He  found 
his  way  out  over  the  tracks  and  into  the  station,  where 
he  entered  the  colored  waiting  room  and  lunch  counter. 
They  were  supposed  to  stop  twenty  minutes  there;  but, 
before  the  lunch  he  had  ordered  was  served,  he  observed 
the  train  pulling  out.  He  tore  out  and  was  about  to 
pass  through  a  gate  that  was  open,  but  was  halted  by  a 
young  white  man,  who  informed  him  that  it  was  the 
gate  white  people  passed  through. 

"But  I'm  traveling  on  that  train,  and  it  is  pulling 
out,"  he  cried  frantically. 

"Don't  make  any  difference,"  said  the  other  coldly. 
"Enter  through  the  niggers'  gate,"  and  pointed  to  the 
rear.  Wyeth  tore  down  there,  but  it  was  closed  and 
locked.  He  gave  up.  Aboard  the  train  was  his  luggage, 


" 'SCRIMINATIN'  'G'INST  NIGGA'S"       427 

while  he  must  stand  and  see  it  go  on  without  him,  simply 
for  the  sake  of  a  rule,  that  Negroes  and  whites  cannot 
walk  through  the  same  gate.  He  was  disgusted  over 
such  an  occurrence,  and  stood  watching  his  train  dis 
appear.  It  had  gone  well  toward  the  end  of  the  yards, 
when  it  came  to  a  stop,  while  the  locomotive  attached 
thereto,  whistled  two  or  three  times.  Another  man 
came  to  the  gate,  and  Wyeth  said  to  him: 

"  I'm  traveling  on  that  train.  Can  I  not  pass  through 
this  gate  and  catch  it?" 

He  was  permitted  to,  and  breathed  a  deep  drawn  sigh. 
As  he  passed  the  fop  who  kept  him  back,  he  gave  him 
a  look,  and  wished  they  were  both  in  the  Rosebud  Country 
at  that  moment.  .  .  . 

A  waiter,  who  had  seen  him  go  into  the  station,  had 
the  vestibule  of  the  diner  open,  and  it  was  through  this 
he  entered,  as  he  caught  the  moving  train. 

"I  knew  you  would  get  balled  up!"  he  exclaimed. 
"I  saw  your  controversy  at  the  gate.  .  .  .  And  wasn't 
surprised,  for  you  see,  this  is  a  white  man's  country." 
Thereupon  he  smiled  a  hard,  dry  smile.  Wyeth  passed 
forward  to  the  Jim  Crow  car,  and  forgot  the  incident, 
for  it  was  best  so. 

They  had  now  come  into  the  greater  city,  and  he 
got  off. 

"Where  can  good  accomodations  be  had  here?"  he 
inquired  of  the  porter. 

"Want  a  place  to  stop?"  His  face  lightened  percept 
ibly.  "If  you  will  wait  until  I  get  through — say  ten  or 
fifteen  minutes — I'll  carry  you  to  a  good  place,"  he  said, 
and  Sidney  waited. 

He  sat  in  the  waiting  room  listening  to  the  noise  with 
out.  About  the  four  sides  of  the  wall,  sat  many  little 
girls — that  is,  girls.  They  smiled  upon  him,  and  made 
immodest  advances.  He  wondered  at  it,  but  then  he 
recalled  that  this  was  supposed  to  be  the  most  profligate 
town  in  our  states.  He  paid  little  attention  to  them. 
Others  entered,  and  they  smiled  upon  them  also. 

Presently  the  porter  appeared,  clothing  changed,  and 
dressed  neatly.  Several  of  the  girls  gathered  about  him, 


428  f  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

and  said  many  foolish  things.  He  smiled  upon  some  of 
them,  while  he  told  others  to  go  to  the  devil;  and  still 
others  he  told  to  go  to  -  -  but  we  will  stop  here. 

And  then  they  told  him  he  could  go  there,  too.  They 
left  then,  and  Wyeth  and  he  walked  up  a  street  that 
was  the  widest,  he  felt  certain,  that  he  had  ever  seen. 

"Where  are  you  from?"   inquired  the  porter. 

Wyeth  told  him;   whereupon  the  other  whistled. 

"That's  a  long  way  from  here.  How  do  you  like  these 
parts?" 

Wyeth  didn't  answer  the  last;  but  to  the  first  he  said: 
"Yes,  a  long  way/'  and  fell  silent. 

"Ever  been  here  before?"   said  the  porter. 

"Twelve  years  and  more  ago." 

"See  quite  a  difference  now,  eh?" 

"I  was  not  here  long  enough  to  see  what  there  was  in 
the  beginning." 

They  walked  up  a  street  that  was  intersected  at 
various  and  irregular  intervals,  by  numerous  other  streets, 
that  were  as  narrow,  if  not  more  so,  than  the  one  they 
were  following  was  wide.  In  the  center  of  the  wide 
street  were  four  car  lines.  This  part  of  the  street  was 
raised  above  the  other,  and  was  protected  by  a  curbing,  that 
prevented  anything  with  wheels  from  crossing,  only  at 
the  intersections.  Wyeth  remembered  this.  It  was 
something  he  had  never  seen  elsewhere,  and  he  wondered 
who  could  have  conceived  the  idea  of  making  one  street 
so  wide,  and  then  crossing  it  with  others  that  were  so 
narrow  that  only  one  single  street  car  track  was  possible, 
and,  when  passing  down  it,  the  wagons  on  either  side 
had  to  hug  the  curbing  closely,  or  be  collided  with. 

"A  beautiful  place,"  he  commented,  pointing  to  the 
maze  of  electric  lights  that  lined  the  narrow  cross  streets, 
and  made  their  way  as  bright  as  day — brighter,  he  came 
afterwards  to  see,  when  it  rained. 

"This  town  was  settled  by  French  and  Spaniards 
many  years  ago,  and  they  were  very  artistic  in  planning 
for  the  future  of  the  city,"  said  the  other. 

"It  is  apparent  on  all  sides;  I  can  see  that,"  Wyeth 
agreed. 


"  'SCRIMINATIN'  'G'INST  NIGGA'S"       429 

"There  are  some  of  the  most  beautiful  colored  people 
here  you  ever  saw,"  said  the  other. 

"There  is  one  now/'  said  Wyeth,  as  a  woman,  different 
from  the  kind  he  had  been  accustomed  to,  passed  by. 

"Creole,"  advised  the  other. 

"And  this  is  their  native  soil,  so  I  understand,"  said 
Wyeth,  turning  his  head  to  take  another  look  at  the 
woman  with  the  beautiful  face. 

"There  are  some,"  said  the  porter,  "who  cannot  speak 
English  at  all." 

"Indeed!"  exclaimed  Wyeth. 

"Yes,"  went  on  the  other.  "Plenty  cannot  speak  a 
word  of  English,  and  they  may  be  found  in  what  is 
called  the  French  district.  It  is  there  you  find  them 
with  the  most  beautiful  skin,  and  the  finest  and  heaviest 
hair  you  ever  saw." 

"I  hear  they  have  frightful  tempers,"  said  Wyeth. 
"Is  it  true?" 

"I  would  advise  you  to  avoid  any  conflict  with  them, 
lest  you  find  out,"  said  the  other,  smiling  amusedly. 

"What  is  that?"  said  Wyeth,  pointing  to  a  bar  before 
which  stood  many  men  drinking. 

"Why,  what?"  said  the  other,  then  replied:  "A 
saloon." 

"And  they  are  open  on  Sunday?"  Yet  he  was  not 
surprised  when  he  had  thought,  for  he  had  seen  the 
same  elsewhere.  But  the  other  replied: 

"The  saloons  never  close  here." 

"Never  close!    What  do  you  mean?"  said  Wyeth. 

"What  I  say,"  from  the  other. 

"And  still  I  do  not  understand  you,"  said  Wyeth. 
And  then  added:  "What  time  do  they  open  in  the 
morning?" 

"They  do  not  close  at  night;  therefore,  they  do  not 
have  to  go  to  the  trouble  of  opening  in  the  morning." 

"Uh  huh!" 

"There  are  saloons  here  that  boast  of  having  not 
closed  since  before  the  Revolutionary  War." 

"Good  night!"  Wyeth  laughed.  "Something  histor 
ical  down  here!" 


430  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"You'll  learn  more  when  you  have  been  here  a  while. 
This  is  the  city  of  history — American  history.  We  turn 
here." 

And  Wyeth  came  to  see  for  himself.  They  were 
crossing  the  wide  street  now,  and  went  up  another  that 
was  as  wide,  but  no  cars  ran  up  that  way. 

"This  is  Basin  court,"  said  the  other,  as  they  paused 
outside  of  a  two-story  structure,  that  opened  its  doors 
upon  the  street. 

A  big,  fat,  brown-skinned  man  appeared  presently, 
and  bade  them  enter. 

When  they  were  inside  they  met  another — a  woman, 
and  she  was  fatter  still.  It  was  the  man's  wife,  and  she 
appeared  to  be  in  charge,  from  her  statements  regarding 
the  rental.  They  were  from  Alabama,  and  one  glance 
was  sufficient  to  show  they  were  not  creole. 

Wyeth  bought  some  beer,  and  the  fat  man  went  for  it 
with  a  pitcher.  He  returned  with  as  much  for  a  dime,  as 
would  have  cost  twenty-five  cents  in  Effingham.  He 
said  so  to  the  other,  and  then  the  others  laughed  and 
said: 

"This  is  the  city  where  they  drink  it.  They  drink 
more  here  than  anywhere  else  in  the  world."  Wyeth 
recalled  a  year  before — but  then  these  people  had  seen 
only  a  small  part  of  the  world,  as  their  conversation 
later  revealed,  and,  of  course — but  it  didn't  matter. 

"You  genemens  goin'  to  the  dance?"  said  the  woman. 

" To  the  dance? "  Wyeth  repeated.    " This  is  Sunday! " 

They  smiled  at  him  now — all  of  them — and  then  said: 

"Sunday  is  the  day  of  sport  in  this  town.  More 
dances  occur  on  Sunday  than  any  other  day." 

Wyeth  whistled. 

"This  is  the  creole  city,"  and  they  smiled  again. 

"This  gentleman  is  from  a  more  pious  territory,"  said 
the  porter,  appreciatively.  He  seemed  to  be  very  intel 
ligent. 

"What  kind  of  work  do  the  genemen  follow?"  asked 
the  hostess. 

"Books,"  Wyeth  replied. 

"They  don't  read  much  down  here,"  she  said,  dubiously. 


'  'SCRIMINATIN'  'GAINST  NIGGA'S"       431 

"Some  do  everywhere — more  or  less!" 

"They  are  strongly  engaged  in  the  art  of  having  a 
good  time  here/'  remarked  the  porter,  and  laughed. 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Wyeth.  "And,  since  practically 
half  of  the  colored  people  of  the  state  are  illiterate,  I  am, 
of  course,  compelled  to  agree  with  you." 

They  talked  on  other  topics  now,  and  Wyeth,  not 
feeling  sleepy,  suggested  venturing  out  sight  seeing. 
He  went  alone,  and  what  he  saw,  he  did  not  soon  forget. 

When  the  door  had  closed  behind  him,  and  his  steps 
died  away  in  the  distance,  the  fat  man  winked  and  the 
woman  smiled;  then  the  pair  spoke,  in  the  same  breath: 

"Books— huh!  He  he!  Books— huh!  He  he!"  They 
regarded  the  porter  with  a  smile;  but  he  did  not,  strange 
to  say,  share  their  point  of  view.  But  they  had  their 
say,  nevertheless. 

"Books— huh!" 


CHAPTER  TWO 

At  Last  She  Didn't  Care 

Mildred  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  directly  under 
the  electric  light  that  filled  the  room  with  its  bright 
rays.  She  could  see  the  end  of  the  key,  as  it  turned  in 
the  lock,  and,  in  that  moment,  a  scheme  entered  her 
head,  like  a  flash.  Locating  the  direction  of  the  door, 
and  facing  toward  it,  she  reached  up  suddenly  and 
switched  off  the  light.  Instantly  the  room  was  ingulfed 
in  darkness.  She  hurried  to  the  door,  and  stood  just  to 
one  side.  Presently  the  knob  turned  and  the  man 
entered.  He  stood  on  the  threshold  a  moment,  and  she 
heard  him  say: 

"Ah,  the  little  girl  is  sleeping  peacefully,"  and  laughed. 
"That  was  a  devil  of  a  dose  a- whiskey  that  girl  gave 
her,  though!  Knocked  her  stiff!  Darned  if  I  don't 
believe  she  was  handing  the  straight  dope  after  all." 
He  advanced  now  toward  the  middle  of  the  room.  Quick 
as  a  flash  she  stepped  out,  and,  seeing  he  had  left  the 
key  in  the  lock,  she  jerked  the  door  closed,  and,  turning 
the  key,  which  she  allowed  to  remain,  rushed  to  the  end 
of  the  steps,  and  hurried  down  as  fast  as  she  could  safely 
venture. 

It  was  dark  outside,  and  no  one  stood  about  the 
entrance.  She  struck  the  pavement,  looked  up  and  down 
a  brief  moment,  and  then  hurried  in  a  direction  that  led 
to  whither  she  knew  not,  but  to  escape  was  her  only 
thought.  She  hurried  along  for  fully  three  blocks,  and 
then  turned  in  another  direction,  and  then  one  block  in 
another,  and  paused — feeling  safe  at  last. 

Up  to  this  time,  she  was  not  conscious  that  her  head 
was  aching  to  a  point  that  wa,s  almost  splitting.  She 
placed  her  hand  upon  her  forehead,  and  only  then  was 
she  aware  that  she  had  the  paper  she  had  picked  from 

432 


AT  LAST  SHE  DIDN'T  CARE  433 

the  dresser,  closely  clutched  in  her  hand.  The  words 
she  had  seen  there,  made  her  at  once  forget  her  headache 
and  all  else. 

She  thought  of  something  then.  She  looked  at  the 
watch  on  her  wrist.  "Yes,  thank  God,  there  is  yet 
time/'  An  hour  later  she  came  back  to  the  place  where 
she  had  stood,  and  continued  in  the  direction  she  had 
been  going,  looking  from  right  to  left  for  a  lodging  house. 

She  stopped  at  several  places  where  a  sign  over  the 
front  advertised  rooms,  but,  at  each  one  they  wanted 
men  only.  She  had  no  thought  of  going  back  to  where 
she  had  been  stopping  the  last  week;  and,  besides,  she 
knew  not  where  she  was,  nor  did  she  know  the  street  or 
number  where  she  had  been  stopping,  therefore  was 
confident  she  could  not  have  found  it,  had  she  wished 
to  return. 

Upon  the  street,  she  encountered  many  people  celebrat 
ing  the  event  of  the  coming  year,  and  then  she  tried  a 
small  house  that  set  back  in  a  yard,  and  which  appeared 
very  neat  from  where  she  viewed  it.  She  secured  a 
room,  and  retired  at  once.  Setting  the  oil  lamp  on  a 
chair  next  to  the  bed,  she  unfolded  the  paper  and  read 
the  article  on  the  front  page  carefully,  over  and  over 
again.  It  was  an  Effingham  paper,  and. a  date  of  some 
time  before.  When  she  had  read  it,  until  she  was  con 
vinced  that  she  was  not  dreaming,  she  sighed  restfully 
as  she  murmured: 

"At  last,  oh  Lord,  at  last!" 

It  was  the  Effingham  Age-Herald,  and  the  issue  con 
tained  the  article  by  Sidney  Wyeth,  in  which  he  severely 
arraigned  the  leading  people  of  his  race  in  that  city  for 
their  disregard  of  the  general  welfare  of  their  people. 

"I'm  so  glad,  so  glad,"  she  whispered  softly.  "And 
to  think  that  it  came  to  my  attention  in  such  an  extra 
ordinary  manner!"  She  felt  her  forehead,  and  winced 
when  the  heat  and  throb  came  into  contact  with  the 
touch.  She  made  a  wry  face,  as  she  recalled  the  taste 
of  stale  whiskey.  Only  then  did  she  become  aware,  that 
when  she  had  turned  at  the  sound  of  the  piano,  someone 
had  filled  her  glass  with  liquor.  And  she  had  drunk  it 


434  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

before  she  realized  that  it  had  been  doped.  She  thought 
of  the  incident;  from  the  time  she  had  met  Miss  Jones 
at  the  corner,  and  had  been  informed  of  the  part  of  the 
town  she  was  in.  She  shuddered  and  drew  the  coverlets 
closely  about  her,  as  her  mind  went  over  it  again.  She 
then  tried  to  recall  how  she  had  followed  Miss  Jones  to 
the  place  where  she  had  met  the  men.  And  there  she 
had  drunk  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  whiskey,  although 
she  was  not  at  the  moment  aware  of  it.  She  rose  out  of 
the  bed,  as  the  dream  came  back  to  her;  how  the  tornado 
had  taken  Sidney  into  the  air,  and  then  the  story  of  the 
hills  and  the  Indians.  She  pondered  for  a  time,  and 
wondered  if  such  a  thing  had  been  the  history  of  the 
Rosebud  Country.  And  Sidney  Wyeth  had  not  been 
caught  in  a  tornado,  but  had  swept  a  multitude  of  people 
with  his  pen,  in  a  burning  article.  She  read  over  a  part 
of  it  again.  The  very  evils  he  had  berated  the  most 
fiercely,  were  the  things  she  had  heard  Wilson  Jacobs 
deplore,  and  speak  of  more  than  once.  Yes,  Sidney  Wyeth 
had  written  the  truth.  And  from  the  way  it  was  pictured, 
she  reckoned  that  it  must  have  created  a  bit  of  excite 
ment.  And  that  was  the  kind  of  man  Sidney  Wyeth  was. 
She  smiled  as  she  thought  of  it. 

"And  I  love  him.  Was  it  because  of  these  principles, 
that  I  strangely  felt  were  inherent  in  him,  that  he  has 
been  my  dream,  which  has  grown  larger  in  my  estimation, 
in  the  months  I  have  had  no  word  of  him?"  she  asked 
herself.  "I  am  going  to  him — I  am,  tomorrow.  Of 
course/'  she  replied  to  herself  in  the  next  sentence,  "I  am 
not  going  directly  to  him.  .  .  .  He  wouldn't  quite  ap- 

Ereciate  that — oh,   he  wouldn't  appreciate  me  at  all; 
ut  I  love  him,  and  am  going  where  he  is,  and  after 
that  —      "  she  had  no  other  words,  nor  thoughts.    To 
be  where  he  was,  maybe  to  see  him,  became  the  upper 
most  desire  in  her  mind. 

She  did  not,  strangely  enough,  think  any  more  about 
the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  She  thought  of  her  lover  as,  with  a 
peaceful  smile,  she  fell  asleep.  She  did  not  dream  that 
night,  but  lay  as  she  had  fallen  asleep,  and  it  was  six 
o'clock  the  following  morning,  the  first  of  January,  when 
she  awakened. 


AT  LAST  SHE  DIDN'T  CARE  435 

She  lay  a  half  hour  without  any  thoughts  in  her  mind, 
and  then,  observing  a  window  next  to  the  bed,  she 
raised  it  slightly,  and  peeped  out.  It  was  not  yet  so 
very  light.  It  was,  apparently,  a  quiet  street,  occupied 
by  working  people  who  were  now  in  many  numbers  on 
the  way  to  their  work.  A  boy  with  a  bunch  of  papers 
under  his  arm  was  passing  in  their  midst,  and  then  sud 
denly  she  wrapped  on  the  window  pane.  He  looked  up, 
being  accustomed  to  doing  so,  and,  catching  sight  of  her 
hand,  entered  the  gate  and  stood  under  the  window  with 
an  upraised  paper,  while  she  fished  out  a  nickel  and 
dropped  it  into  his  hand. 

She  smiled  with  an  expression  of  satisfaction,  as  she 
read  the  article  relating  to  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  for  colored 
youth  of  the  city,  and  was  glad  to  note  that  Wilson 
Jacobs  came  in  for  a  great  deal  of  praise.  She  laid  it 
aside  for  a  time,  and  was  thoughtful  again. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered  to  herself,  "I  will  leave  the  city 
at  once.  The  one  thing  I  so  much  desired,  and  which 
has  kept  me  here  through  these  weary  months,  has  been 
obtained."  She  closed  her  lips  and  planned  further. 

She  decided  to  go  to  Effingham.  She  would  send  an 
expressman  for  her  things  at  Mother  Jane's  that  morning. 
She  would  then  purchase  a  ticket  and  go  by  the  first 
train.  She  turned  to  the  editorial  column  of  the  paper, 
and  was  made  happy  by  a  lengthy  editorial,  relating  the 
effort  for  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  and  praising  Wilson  Jacobs 
further. 

She  did  not  know,  however,  that  the  editor  'of  the 
paper  that  she  was  reading,  and  who  was  one  of  the  most 
ardent  supporters  in  the  Christian  forward  movement  in 
the  south,  had  been  at  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  the  evening 
before.  He  had  come  with  the  others,  out  of  curiosity, 
when  Wilson  Jacobs  had  torn  into  the  building,  bare 
headed  and  looking  like  an  insane  man.  And  he  had 
written  the  article  the  first  thing  in  the  new  year. 

She  arose  and  dressed  herself  at  seven  o'clock,  and 
slipped  out  of  the  house  without  awakening  anyone. 
It  was  getting  light  now,  and  she  went  some  blocks 
before  she  encountered  an  expressman  that  satisfied  her. 


436  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

She  gave  him  the  instructions,  and  walked  about,  im 
patiently,  while  she  waited  for  him  to  return.  As  she 
was  waiting,  she  became  possessed  with  a  desire  to  see 
the  little  house  occupied  by  the  Jacobs,  and  where  she 
had  spent  so  many  happy,  hopeful  months. 

She  had  no  trouble  finding  it,  since  light  had  given 
her  an  acquaintance  with  her  surroundings.  She  found 
that  she  was  not  far  from  it,  and  then  recognized  with  a 
start,  that  the  same  drayman  she  had  sent  for  the  goods, 
was  the  one  who  had  taken  the  same  from  the  Jacobs'  a 
few  months  before.  He  had  not  recognized  her,  and  she 
now  gave  him  no  further  chance  to  do  so. 

She  walked  until  the  house  was  in  sight,  and  then, 
going  around  a  block,  she  found  herself  within  a  half 
block  of  it.  Smoke  was  coming  from  the  kitchen  chimney, 
and  she  knew  they  were  astir. 

"Bless  them!"  she  murmured,  as  she  realized  how 
happy  must  be  their  hearts  that  morning.  "And  that 
is  why  they  are  astir  so  soon.  They  do  not  usually  arise 
until  nearly  eight  o'clock." 

As  she  stood  gazing  longingly  at  the  house,  she  saw 
Constance  emerge  from  the  rear,  and  scatter  wheat  to  a 
few  chickens  they  had  taken  a  delight  in  raising  the  past 
summer.  "If  I  could  only  go  to  her  in  this  minute,  and 
feel  her  caress  for  just  a  moment,  I  would  leave  the  city 
the  happiest  woman  in  the  world."  She  stopped  when 
she  had  said  this.  To  realize  that  she  was  slipping  out  of 
the  city  like  a  criminal,  without  greeting  the  friends  she 
had  there,  made  her  feel  peculiarly  guilty.  She  had  no 
enmity  in  her  heart  toward  anyone — not  even  the  man 
who  haunted  her  into  the  position  she  now  assumed,  and 
whose  sole  purpose  had  been  to  satisfy  an  animal 
desire.  She  knew  she  could  not  go  to  Constance,  nor  to 
Mother  Jane's — nor  to  anyone.  She  would  leave  the  city 
without  saying  goodbye  to  a  soul.  She  turned  her  face 
away,  as  she  recalled  that  she  had  left  Cincinnati  the 
same  way.  She  had  no  friends  there,  and  had  avoided 
making  acquaintances.  She  almost  choked  with  guilty 
anguish  as  she  asked  herself: 

"  Is  it  always  to  be  this  way?   Am  I  forever  to  go  from 


AT  LAST  SHE  DIDN'T  CARE  437 

place  to  place  under  cover  like  a  criminal?  Am  I  always 
to  be  without  friends? "  She  couldn't  make  answer. 
She  could  have  a  certain  kind  of  friends;  but  she  shud 
dered  when  she  realized  what  kind  they  would  be.  She 
had  never  told  anyone  the  secret. 

She  had  no  desire,  strangely,  to  do  so.  Only  one 
person  among  those  she  loved  knew  it,  she  now  con 
jectured.  And  she  would  leave  to  be  near  him  soon. 
He  knew — a  part  of  it.  ...  and  he  had  turned  away  and 
had  passed  out  of  her  life,  when  he  learned  it.  He  would 
never  come  back;  he  would  never  forget  it — and  even  if, 
through  any  possible  chance,  she  proved  to  him  that  it 
was  all  a  very  different  'problem,  could  he  ever  forgive 
her?  Perhaps  that  was  what  made  it  harder  to  bear. 
She  almost  believed  he  would  not.  In  reading  his  book, 
she  had  marked  a  cold,  decided  stand,  and  she  felt  that, 
if  he  had  made  up  his  mind  against  her,  which  he  had 
apparently  done,  he  was  not  likely  to  change.  ...  It 
depended  upon  the  strength  of  his  resolutions.  She  could 
never  get  beyond  a  certain  point  in  her  dreams.  But  in 
spite  of  that  fact,  something  within  her  longed  to  be  near 
him;  to  see  him;  not  to  ask  forgiveness — not  to  do 
anything;  but  just  to  be  near  him,  that  was  all. 

Wilson  Jacobs  stood  on  the  porch  at  the  front  of  the 
house  now,  smoking  a  cigar  in  a  way,  she  could  at  this 
distance  see,  he  enjoyed.  Yesterday  morning  he  could 
not  have  smoked  in  so  much  peace;  but  today,  the 
future  was  brighter  than  it  had  ever  been  for  him;  she 
felt  this,  and  it  was  true.  As  he  stood  looking  about 
him,  Wilson  Jacobs  was  happy.  He  was  not  happy  over 
his  own  success — for  Wilson  Jacobs  did  not  feel  that  he 
had  made  the  success — but  he  was  happy  from  the  fact 
that  the  young  Negro  men  of  that  wicked,  criminally 
torn  city,  would  soon  be  the  recipients  of  a  movement 
that  would  insure  a  brighter  future,  less  tinged  with 
degradation  and  vice. 

Presently  he  turned,  as  though  responding  to  a  call, 
and  entered  the  house.  Mildred  surmised  that  he  had 
been  called  to  breakfast.  She  turned  on  her  heel,  and 
went  back  to  the  expressman's  place,  and  met  him 
returning  with  the  things. 


438  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

They  were  all  packed.  The  trunk  only  required  a  rope 
around  it,  and  it  was  ready  for  the  station.  She  in 
structed  the  expressman  to  this  end,  and  met  him  at  the 
depot,  where  she  purchased  a  ticket  for  Effingham. 

She  strolled  outside  and  to  a  nearby  restaurant,  where 
she  partook  of  a  hearty  breakfast,  for  she  was  hungry. 
She  returned  to  the  station,  and  waited  patiently  for  the 
arrival  of  the  train  from  the  north,  that  would  take  her 
away  from  the  city  where  she  had  been  for  many  months. 
If  it  had  not  fallen  to  her  lot  to  encounter  the  man  who 
had  known  her  back  in  Cincinnati,  she  could  have  left 
the  city  with  friends  at  the  depot,  and  much  more  cere 
moniously;  but  she  was  glad  that  she  was  leaving  it  as 
it  was.  When  she  had  awakened  the  evening  before,  she 
had,  for  a  moment,  felt  that  she  could  not  leave  it  with 
out  a  terrible  pang  of  conscience. 

The  train  had  arrived,  and  the  people  were  hurrying 
in  that  direction.  She  joined  them,  and,  as  she  was 
passing  through  the  gate,  she  turned  for  a  moment,  and 
looked  into  the  face  of  the  man  who  had  sent  her  away 
like  this.  She  regarded  him  without  a  tremor  of  fright. 
At  last  she  didn't  care.  A  moment  later  she  entered 
the  car. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

"They  Knew  He  Had  Written  the  Truth" 

"Yes,"  said  the  man,  "I  knew  Sidney  Wyeth  well. 
He  was,  in  fact,  a  personal  friend  of  mine;  and,  let  me 
tell  you,  Madam,  there  never  was  a  fellow  more  interested 
in  the  welfare  of  his  people,  from  a  general  point  of  view, 
than  the  one  you  inquire  about/' 

"Indeed!"   she  echoed,  with  a  pleased  smile. 

"Yes,  Madam,  I  speak  the  truth.  My  name  is  Jones/' 
he  said.  "  I  am  the  editor  of  the  Reporter,  and  Mr.  Wyeth 
used  to  drop  into  the  office  here  quite  often,  and  talk 
with  me  about  the  condition  of  our  people  in  the  south. 
He  was  a  conscientious  fellow,  void  of  pretense,  and  with 
a  regard  for  anyone's  point  of  view.  Yes,  Wyeth  was 
a  fellow  who  insisted  upon  calling  a  spade  a  spade,  not  a 
hoe;  but  there  is  an  element  of  people  here — or  was, 
rather — before  the  appearance  of  an  arraignment  by 
Wyeth,  who  had  only  contempt  for  anyone's  opinion 
other  than  their  own.  Oh,  I'll  tell  you,  Miss,  you  cannot 
imagine  how  this  has  been  worrying  me  for  years.  I 
have  been  conducting  this  paper  for  some  time,  and  have 
struggled  to  make  it  a  good  sheet;  but,  of  course,  we 
cannot  collect  from  advertising  and  make  our  paper  pay, 
as  we  would  like  to  see  it."  He  paused  a  moment,  and 
then,  making  himself  more  comfortable,  he  fell  into  a 
long  conversation,  in  which,  with  much  fervor,  he  told 
Mildred  Latham,  whom  he  had  observed  was  a  careful 
and  appreciative  listener,  of  the  conditions  Sidney  Wyeth 
had  seen  and  had  written  about. 

"The  papers  told  about  the  success  of  Wilson  Jacobs 
in  securing  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  for  the  town  northwest  of  here, 
and  God  knows  how  glad  I  am  to  see  that  our  people  in 
the  south  are  coming  to  appreciate  a  Christian  forward 
movement.  We  have  been,  in  a  way,  steering  in  a  direc- 

439 


440  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

tion  that  got  us  nowhere,  and  that  was  the  way  Wyeth 
used  to  discuss  it.  We  have  here,  and  in  the  town  just 
mentioned,  the  worst  Negroes  under  the  sun,  and  yet 
counted  as  civilized  people.  And  it  seems  to  have  been 
forgotten  or  overlooked,  that  our  salvation,  in  a  moral 
sense,  as  well  as  in  a  practical  and  progressive,  depends 
first  upon  our  own  initiative.  I  cannot  account  for  the 
selfishness  that  has  so  pervaded  the  lives  of  our  pro 
fessional  people.  Last  summer,  in  a  lengthy  article,  a 
Mr.  B.  J.  Dickson,  editor  of  the  Attalia  Independent, 
scored  the  physicians  of  that  city  for  a  little  incident, 
that  in  itself  showed  a  mark  of  narrowness  that  few 
would  or  could  be  brought  to  believe." 

He  then  related  the  article  in  brief,  stating  that  the 
color  line  had  been  drawn  among  the  colored  people 
themselves,  and  became  very  much  worked  up  over  the 
fact  that  most  of  the  people  who  had  been  invited,  did 
not,  as  a  rule,  employ  Negro  doctors  for  professional 
purposes. 

"I  have  hinted  at  the  things  Mr.  Wyeth  attacked  in 
his  article,  and  I  have,  more  than  once,  pointed  to  the 
evils  in  our  own  society;  but  no  one  paid  any  attention. 
No,  they  were  too  self-opinionated.  They  could  not  see 
their  faults  in  a  Negro  paper;  but,  when  it  was  brought 
to  their  attention  on  the  front  page  of  one  of  the  most 
conservative  papers  conducted  by  whites  in  the  south, 
well,  then,  it  appeared  altogether  different. 

"They  stewed  and  deplored,  became  indignant,  and  all 
that;  but  the  truth  cannot  be  played  with.  With  all 
the  noise  that  followed  the  publication  of  the  article, 
conscience  became  a  burden.  They  knew  to  the  last 
one,  that  Sidney  Wyeth  had  written  the  truth,  and 
nothing  but  the  truth.  And,  thanks  to  God,  there  were 
enough  good  people  to  say,  when  the  demagogues  were 
decrying  it,  that  it  was  the  truth.  So  now,  in  this  city, 
where  times  are  hard,  and  many  people  are  out  of  work; 
but  with  plenty  of  time  to  think  it  over,  there  is  in  evi 
dence  a  decided  change,  and  it  is  my  opinion,  that  next 
summer  will  see  this  new  idea  put  into  effect — at  least 
started/' 


KNEW  HE  HAD  WRITTEN  THE  TRUTH    441 

"So,  Mr.  Wyeth  has  located  permanently  here?"  she 
inquired,  after  a  pause. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  replied  quickly.  "I  had  become  so 
stirred,  when  I  recalled  how  much  life  and  appreciation 
that  article  of  his  had  inspired  in  the  order  of  existence 
about  here,  that  I  forgot  to  say  that  Mr.  Wyeth  has 
left  the  city.  In  fact,  he  left  the  city  immediately  after 
the  appearance  of  the  article." 

She  caught  her  breath,  and  swallowed  with  surprise 
and  disappointment.  He  had  left  the  city.  Where  had 
he  gone  to?  She  was  afraid  to  inquire.  But  Jones  was 
speaking  again,  and  saved  her  the  embarrassment  of 
inquiring. 

"Yes,  he  left  a  day  or  so  afterward.  He  is  not  likely 
to  locate  in  the  south.  And,  moreover,  his  mission  in 
these  parts  is  not,  I  am  sure,  one  of  locating  or  hunting  a 
location.  He  appears  to  be  one  seeking  the  truth  about 
our  people."  He  told  her  of  Wyeth's  departure  to  the 
creole  city,  and  then,  obviously  anxious  to  unload  his 
burden  of  opinions,  to  which  she  listened  with  patient 
interest,  he  continued: 

"I  am  of  the  opinion  that  he  will  write  a  book  on 
these  conditions  in  the  near  future.  And,  if  it  compares 
with  his  article  and  carries  a  romance  interwoven,  it  will 
meet  with  public  appreciation.  He  always  spoke  of  his 
home  out  west  with  much  longing,  and  I  suppose  that 
the  atmosphere  out  there  must  be  of  the  progressive 
spirit,  which  makes  a  difference  when  one  is  forced  to 
tolerate  the  conditions  of  sluggishness  down  here." 

"How  are  the  people  here  on  Christian  forward  work?" 
she  asked. 

"They  had  never  thought  of  such  a  thing  until  Wyeth 
wrote  the  article,  and  it  was  the  same  in  regard  to  a 
library  and  a  park.  You  see,  Madam,  it  has  been  like 
this,"  he  explained:  "Our  people  have  been  in  the  habit 
of  accepting  everything  (when  it  came  to  uplift)  from 
the  white  people  as  a  matter  of  course,  never  letting  it 
worry  them,  as  far  as  their  own  efforts  were  concerned. 
Then,  again,  what  few  books  have  been  written,  with 
some  exceptions  (novels  especially,  and  of  which  our 


442  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

race  has  produced  but  few)  have  dealt  with  the  Negro  as 
a  poor,  persecuted  character,  deserving  everybody's  sym 
pathy.  In  some  manner,  the  authors  have  been  either 
careful  to  avoid  his  more  inherent  traits,  or  they  were  so 
fired  with  their  subject  matter,  that  they  forgot  it. 

"Yes,  Wyeth  brought  in  a  couple  of  books  he  had  sent 
for,  and  which  were  written  by  the  most  successful  fiction 
writer  our  race  has  known.  He  read  them,  and  pointed 
out  that  only  a  slight  mention  was  made  therein,  that 
the  Negro  would  lie — 'excuse  the  expression' — and  steal, 
get  drunk,  and  fight,  and  kill  and  gamble  to  such  an 
extent,  that  he  would  lose  his  last  dollar,  and  lie  out  of 
paying  an  honest  debt. 

"Anyone  who  conscientiously  knows  the  Negro,  must 
certainly  be  aware  of  these  traits.  Why  then,  should  a 
writer  build  a  work  of  the  imagination,  in  which  he 
seeks  to  reveal  to  the  reader  the  white  man's  hatred  for 
his  black  brother,  without  including  in  the  same  state 
ment,  that  the  Negro  has  inherent  traits,  which  are  some 
of  the  worst  evils  good  society  is  called  upon  to  endure? 
Wyeth  judged  this  was  the  reason  why  these  books  did 
not  sell  and  the  authors  ceased  to  write,  since  they  could 
not  work  without  a  living  profit. 

"Of  course,  when  we  allow  ourselves,  our  thoughts, 
rather,  to  dwell  upon  the  white  man's  prejudice,  we  will 
surely  become  pessimists.  Who  is  not  aware  of  it?  But 
it  is  the  purpose  of  the  practical  Negro  to  forget  that 
condition  as  much  as  possible.  To  allow  our  minds  to 
dwell  upon  it,  and  predict  what  is  likely  to  happen,  is 
only  to  prepare  ourselves  for  eternal  misery.  So  far  as 
I  believe,  it  is  my  opinion  that  the  white  man  will  always 
hate  the  Negro.  It  may  be  argued  that  it  is  un-Christian- 
like,  which  is  true;  but  the  fact  to  be  reckoned  with, 
and  which  remains,  is  that  the  white  man  dislikes  Negroes. 
But,  when  we  have  our  own  welfare  to  consider  first  and 
last,  it  is  logical  that  we  turn  our  energies  to  a  more 
momentary  purpose. 

"I  read  Derwins'  first  book,  a  work  of  sociology,  and 
which  met  a  great  sale,  and  thereby  brought  him  into 
public  notice.  Then  I  read  his  late  one,  a  novel,  in 


KNEW  HE  HAD  WRITTEN  THE  TRUTH    443 

which  he  potrayed  the  evil  of  prejudice.  Like  the 
other  author  I  refer  to,  he  built  his  plot  entirely  upon 
that,  leaving  the  fact  that  the  Negro  possesses  the 
many  vices  I  have  mentioned  to  be  understood.  Of  all 
races,  the  Negro  is  the  most  original  and  humorous. 
Those  who  know  him,  even  the  least,  look  for  some 
humor.  Fancy,  then,  how  people  must  be  disappoint 
ed,  when  they  purchase  and  read  a  volume  concerning 
that  race,  and  find  it  void  of  humor!  The  work  of  both 
these  men,  like  works  other  than  fiction,  by  Negroes, 
is  couched  in  the  most  select  words;  but  the  people  look 
for  what  they  know  to  be  current.  And  when  they  do 
not  find  it,  they  are  likely  to  lay  the  book  aside,  and  pick 
up  something  that  is  more  to  their  taste. 

"And,  with  all  due  regard  for  the  writings  of  these  men, 
if  you  read  their  works  carefully,  you  will  discover  their 
own  lack  of  confidence  in  the  race  whose  cause  they 
champion.  I  will  relate  a  little  incident  to  show  this: 

"Follow  the  romance,  and  you  will  find  it  invariably 
centered  about  a  white  couple.  Why  have  they  done 
this?  The  answer  will  be,  a  moral;  but,  in  my  opinion, 
they  could  not  imagine  a  Negro  character  strong  enough 
to  weave  into  the  plot,  and,  therefore,  substituted  white 
lovers,  because,  in  their  imagination,  it  was  more  fitting. 

"These  men  have  quit  writing,  from  the  fact,  that  it 
did  not  pay;  for,  it  takes  a  world  of  thought,  concen 
trated  upon  a  certain  purpose,  to  write  a  novel.  Any 
man  with  the  ability  to  put  a  great  thought  into  words, 
and  to  employ  words  that  are  select,  in  the  manner 
these  men  did  in  their  books,  could,  at  least  should  be, 
practical  enough  to  do  so  in  such  a  manner  as  to  win 
an  audience  that  would  pay  sufficiently  for  their  work  to 
maintain  them.  Instead  of  that,  they  have  both  quit 
writing.  They  were  sincere,  but  did  the  worst  possible 
thing  by  quitting.  For  the  quitter  never  gains  anything; 
and,  when  it  comes  to  championing  the  cause  of  a  people, 
the  persons  who  have  attempted  the  same,  should  cer 
tainly  adhere  to  the  task."  He  paused  now,  as  someone 
knocked  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  he  called. 


444  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

A  woman,  neatly  dressed  and  attractive  in  appearance, 
and  apparently  intelligent,  entered. 

"How  do,  Mr.  Jones,"  she  cried,  stretching  forth  her 
hand.  Mildred  rose  to  go,  but  Jones  waved  her  back. 

"Mrs.  Langdon,"  he  said  kindly,  "I  am  glad  to  see 
you.  Be  seated."  She  took  a  seat.  She  turned  to 
Mildred,  who  looked  as  though  she  felt  she  was  intrud 
ing,  and  said: 

"It  is  nothing  private!" 

She  drew  from  her  bag  a  few  sheets  of  paper,  and, 
smoothing  them  out,  she  handed  them  to  the  editor  with: 
"Here  is  a  little  article  I  have  written,  in  honor  of  the 
young  lady  who  is  soon  to  make  her  appearance  here  in 
recital,  as  you  know,  and  which  has  been  well  advertised. 
I  wish  to  have  you  publish  it  in  your  paper,"  and  then 
she  smiled  sweetly  and  affected  much  modesty,  as  she 
added:  "It  will  not  be  necessary  that  you  mention  the 
same  is  written  by  me." 

"But  I  wish  you  to  have  all  that  is  your  due,  Mrs. 
Langdon,"  he  protested. 

"Oh,  very  well,  then,"  she  said,  and  rising,  with  a 
few  more  words,  she  took  her  leave. 

Jones  glanced  over  the  page,  and  then  started.  "  Excuse 
me  just  a  moment,  Miss,"  he  begged,  and  read  the  pages 
which  were  neatly  written  and  punctuated.  When  he 
had  finished,  he  smiled  and  said,  under  his  breath: 
"That  is  certainly  nerve." 

Mildred  regarded  him  curiously.  He  looked  at  her, 
and  handed  the  manuscript  across  the  desk,  saying: 
"Please  read  it." 

She  obeyed,  and  when  she  was  through,  said:  "It  is 
a  nice  eulogy,"  and  then  her  face  showed  the  wonder 
ment  because  of  his  expression  of  a  moment  ago. 

"Yes,"  he  agreed,  "it  is  nice,  but  take  a  glance  at 
this,"  and  forthwith  drew  from  the  top  of  the  desk,  a 
pamphlet  with  the  picture  of  an  attractive  colored  girl 
thereon. 

Mildred  observed  the  picture,  and  then  read  the 
article  on  the  other  three  pages.  When  she  saw  the 
editor's  face  again,  she  understood,  but  she  didn't  say, 


KNEW  HE  HAD  WRITTEN  THE  TRUTH    445 

in  fact,  she  didn't  know  what  to  say.  The  editor  con 
tinued  : 

"These  pamphlets  are  scattered  all  over  town.  Can 
you  imagine  a  person  with  her  appearance  and  obvious 
intelligence  doing  such  a  thing?  And  yet,  this  office  is 
the  recipient  of  many  such  instances/' 

The  article  had  been  copied  from  the  three  pages  of 
the  pamphlet  he  had  handed  her,  and  which  were  scat 
tered  all  over  the  town. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

The  Woman  With  the  Three  Moles 

She  was  now  in  the  creole  city.  Before  her  lay  the 
wide  street  that  Sidney  Wyeth  had  followed;  but  it  was 
lighted  by  the  sun,  for  she  had  arrived  in  the  morning, 
whereas,  he  had  come  at  night.  She  traveled  with  only 
a  handbag  to  encumber  her,  and,  therefore,  did  not  take 
a  car,  but  walked  leisurely  up  the  broad  highway. 

The  street,  she  at  once  observed,  was  very  wide;  it 
was  so  wide  that  the  buildings  appeared  very  low  that 
lined  the  sides.  She  counted  the  stories  of  one  building, 
and  found  that  it  was  not  the  wide  street  alone,  for  the 
buildings  were  not  high  after  all,  not  nearly  so  high  as 
any  of  the  towns  in  which  she  had  been.  She  wondered 
why  they  were  not;  and,  of  course,  it  did  not  occur  to 
her,  that  the  city  was  built  over  water  that  was  only  a 
few  inches  from  the  surface,  and  which,  in  fact,  seeped 
and  stood  upon  the  top  whenever  it  could.  Keeping  the 
water  below  the  surface,  in  short,  had  been  this  city's 
problem  ever  since  its  location.  And  it  is  no  wonder, 
for,  if  anyone  takes  notice,  the  water  of  the  mighty 
river  (that  makes  it  possible  as  a  port  and  encircles  it 
largely)  is  very  often  above  the  town.  At  several  times 
in  the  history  of  this  city's  existence,  these  waters  have 
become  so  high,  that  they  threatened  for  days  to  spill 
over,  and,  therefore,  submerge  all  the  city  in  a  few 
minutes.  But  our  story  is  not  concerned  with  the  pos 
sible  submerging  of  the  town;  we  are  concerned  in 
following  Mildred  Latham,  as  she  walked  curiously  up 
one  side  of  one  of  its  broad  highways. 

She  wondered,  as  had  Sidney  Wyeth — and  as  perhaps 
anyone  else  given  to  observation  would  wonder — that  it 
should  build  some  streets  so  wide,  and  at  the  same  time 
make  others  so  narrow  that  they  were  not  adequate  for 

446 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  THREE  MOLES    447 

an  alley.  The  buildings,  as  she  saw  them,  with  few 
exceptions,  were  old;  only  a  few  had,  apparently,  been 
erected  in  the  past  ten  years;  while  over  most  of  the 
sidewalks  were  sheds. 

As  she  continued  her  indefinite  wandering,  she  observed 
many  curiosities,  not  to  be  seen  in  other  cities.  "But,  of 
course,"  she  murmured,  "this  is  the  creole  city,  and  is 
known  to  be  much  more  historical  than  the  rest  of  our 
country." 

There  are  not  so  many  colored  people  encountered  on 
the  streets  as  in  other  southern  towns;  although,  view 
ing  its  last  census  of  five  years  before,  there  should  be 
now  not  less  than  one  hundred  thousand  of  that  race 
within  its  limits.  She  saw  many,  however,  and  looked  at 
them  curiously.  Here  and  there  was  one  that  looked 
like  a  creole;  while  most  of  them,  were  the  usual  kind. 

Never  had  she  seen  so  many  cars  on  one  street,  as  she 
saw  on  the  four  tracks  that  ran  down  the  middle  of  this 
one.  They  were  arranged  with  a  curbing  to  protect,  or 
keep  slim-footed  mules  out  of  their  way,  so  they  had  to 
avoid  the  pedestrians  only.  Many  police  protected  at 
every  intersection;  but  withal,  she  was  nervous  as  she 
hurried  across,  at  the  beckon  of  one  who  wore  the  bluest 
uniform,  and  a  white  hat — no,  it  was  a  helmet. 

She  had  arrived  at  Basin  court,  and  did  not  know  that 
she  was  within  a  few  doors  of  the  man  she  loved.  She 
gazed  about  for  a  time,  and  then  went  on  her  way. 
She  came,  presently,  abreast  of  a  man — a  colored  man — 
and  he  was  neat  looking  and  intelligent.  She  paused 
with  some  constraint,  and  said: 

"Could  you  advise  me,  Mister,  where  I  could  secure 
lodging?  I  am  a  stranger,  and — I  do  not  know  where 
to  go." 

He  looked  at  her  keenly  for  a  moment.  Then  his  eyes 
glanced  away  and  down  a  street  that  intersected.  On 
either  side  of  that  street  were  houses — small  houses  that 
made  a  specialty  of  a  room  to  the  front,  and  these  rooms 
contained — but  we  have  not  come  to  that.  And  then 
he  looked  at  her  again. 

His  eyes  wandered  back  down  that  other  street,  and 


448  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

he  thought  for  a  moment.  He  looked  at  her  again,  and 
then  spoke.  This  girl  might  be  stalling — so  many  of 
them  did — but  still  she  was  intelligent,  and  that  made 
a  difference. 

"I  could  not,  Madam,  I  regret  to  say,  for  I  do  not 
live  on  this  side.  My  home  is  in  Tunis,  which  is  across 
the  river.  That  is  why  I  do  not  know." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  and  her  tone  was  sorry,  "you  do  not 
live  on  this  side?" 

"No,  ma'am.  You  are  a  stranger  here?"  He  eyed  her 
keenly  again. 

"Yes,  sir.  I  have  just  arrived,"  and  she  told  him  also, 
that  she  sold  books. 

Her  tone  was  pleasant;  her  words  were  correct;  and 
she  said  them  in  such  a  way  that  he  forgot  his  suspicion, 
and  then  showed  her  forthwith  much  courtesy. 

"Indeed,"  he  commented.  "I  wish  I  knew  a  place; 
but  I  am  not  so  often  on  this  side,  for  I  am  a  physician, 
and  my  duties  keep  me  mostly  over  there;  but  if  you 
had  happened  to  be  wishing  to  stop  over  there,  I  could 
place  you."  .  She  thought  quickly. 

Sidney  Wyeth  was  on  this  side,  undoubtedly.  She 
might  at  any  time  encounter  him.  And  she  didn't  know 
why,  since  that  was  what  she  had  hoped  for;  but  she 
rather  feared  to  encounter  him  right  now.  She  had  no 
room  or  place  to  go,  and,  as  she  meditated,  she  could  not 
see  any  reason  why  she  should  not  as  soon  be  on  the 
other  side  as  on  this.  She  liked  quietness.  So  she  said: 

"I  had  not  decided  whether  I  would  stay  across  the 
river  or  here,  though,  of  course,  I  expected  to  stay  on 
this  side.  I  would,  however,  as  soon  be  on  the  other 
side,  I  think." 

"In  that  event,  then,"  said  he,  "you  can  accompany 
me  home,  for  my  wife — we  are  recently  married  and  she 
is  a  stranger  and  would  be  glad  of  companionship — has  a 
room,  and  it  is  for  rent.  So,  when  you  have  seen  it,  and 
in  case  you  are  satisfied,  you  could  have  it.  The  charge, 
I  think,  furnished,  is  seven  dollars  a  month." 

"That  will  be  nice,"  she  said,  and  was  beside  him. 
"I  am  sure  I  shall  be  satisfied." 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  THREE  MOLES    449 

"Thank  you/'  said  he,  "I  am  going  over  now,  so  if 
you  are  agreeable,  we  will  catch  a  ferry  forthwith." 

They  now  walked  back  down  the  broad  highway,  at 
the  end  of  which  could  be  seen  the  stacks  of  many 
steamers.  He  pointed  out,  very  kindly,  sights  of  interest 
and  explained  them. 

"Now,  here/'  he  said,  "is  a  store.  The  family  who 
own  it  are  rich,  as  rich  as  any  in  the  city,  and  it  is  said 
they  are  part  Negro;  though,  of  course,  they  do  not 
admit  it.  The  city,  you  will  find,  is  a  historical  old  place 
in  many  instances."  And  as  they  walked  down  the 
broad  highway,  he  told  her  a  great  deal  that  was  so 
interesting,  that  it  made  the  distance  which  had  seemed 
a  long  way  an  hour  before,  appear  real  short.  They  went 
up  to  the  river,  and  boarded  a  ferry. 

It  was  a  nice  ride  to  the  other  shore.  Once  in  the 
middle  of  the  river,  which  was  very  wide  at  this  point, 
the  creole  city  rose  and  stood  outlined  in  all  its  splendor. 
The  waters  near  either  shore  were  decorated  with  many 
river  steamers,  and  as  many,  if  not  more,  ocean  liners. 
Great  docks,  grim  and  dark,  opened  their  roller  doors 
along  the  banks;  while  the  steamers  before  them  swung 
great  loads  of  freight  in  their  cellars. 

"Miss  Latham,"  said  the  doctor,  when  they  had  arrived 
at  the  house,  "this  is  my  wife,  Mrs.  Winnie  Jacques." 

They  greeted  each  other,  and  murmured  many  words, 
and,  when  the  introduction  was  over,  Mrs.  Jacques 
turned  and  asked  Mildred  to  follow  her.  As  she  did  so, 
upon  her  neck,  which  rose  above  the  loose  kimono  she  wore, 
was  a  mole;  to  the  right  of  it  another.  Almost  midway 
between  the  two,  but  an  inch  below,  was  another.  And 
now  Mildred  Latham  gave  a  start,  then  she  swallowed 
hard.  Where  had  she  seen  the  moles  before — the  three 
moles?  Only  one  person  in  the  world,  she  was  sure, 
possessed  them.  She  followed  the  other  to  a  room,  and 
that  night  she  didn't  sleep. 

The  next  morning  she  kissed  the  other,  before  she  left, 
but  Mrs.  Jacques  didn't  know  why.  But  she  watched 
her  strangely,  as  she  walked  toward  the  ferry. 


29 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

"Hello,  Brown  Skin!" 

He  came  abreast  of  a  depot;  it  was  new,  with  an  im 
posing  front,  over  which  was  inscribed  TERMINAL 
STATION  in  arched  letters.  It  seemed  quite  a  long 
way  back  to  the  colored  waiting  room,  and  the  station 
was  very  narrow.  It  ran  back  several  hundred  feet, 
where  four  or  five  tracks  received  the  incoming  and  out 
going  human  traffic.  The  station,  like  the  one  he  had 
come  into  a  short  while  ago,  was  filled  with  men  and 
women,  obviously  idlers.  He  lingered  only  a  few  minutes, 
when  curiosity  led  him  further.  He  left  the  station  from 
the  side  entrance,  and  found  himself  upon  a  very  narrow 
street.  He  paused,  and  as  he  did  so,  strains  of  ragtime 
music  came  to  his  ears.  He  was  curious  to  see  where  it 
came  from,  and  to  hear  it  closer.  He  crossed  the  street, 
and  found  that  it  came  from  a  place — a  cabaret — but  for 
white  people  only.  He  turned  away  and  went  down  the 
street,  where  something  odd  caught  his  attention. 

He  stood  where  the  walks  intersected,  and  gazed  to 
his  left.  Yes,  it  was  a  feature.  On  either  side  of  the 
street  stood  a  row  of  one-story  houses.  Lights  were 
bright,  as  bright  as  day,  on  either  side,  which  fact  filled 
the  narrow  street  with  light  also.  He  passed  down  one 
side;  and  there  were  multitudes  of  men  sauntering,  as 
he  was — but  there  were  no  women,  excepting  in  the  one- 
story  houses.  They  stood  behind  open  doors,  some  of 
them,  while  others  sat  in  chairs  before  a  grate  fire; 
but  one  and  all,  he  noted,  were  thinly  dressed  and  smiled 
on  everybody — but  himself  (for,  you  see,  they  were  white 
women) — with  amorous  eyes. 

"Come  here  dearie/'  said  one — and  many  others  said 
the  same.  "I  have  something  to  tell  you."  "Indeed," 


450 


"HELLO,  BROWN  SKIN"  451 

he  conjectured,  "but  secrets  appear  to  be  the  fashion 
here." 

He  walked  to  the  end  of  that  block,  and  where  that 
street  intersected  with  another.  And  before  him,  on 
eight  different  sides,  was  a  myriad  of  the  same.  Women, 
thinly  clad — and  it,  you  understand,  was  the  month  of 
January.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  sight  to  be  indulged;  a  pastime  that  was 
diverting,  to  say  the  least.  And,  since  so  very  many 
others — men — were  seeing  it,  why  then  not  he? 

He  saw  it — at  least  a  large  part  of  it. 

He  strolled  another  block,  and  the  same  sight  met  his 
eye;  but,  as  he  got  further  away  from  the  station,  the 
lights  grew  dimmer;  the  women  fewer,  but  plenty,  at 
any  rate. 

Now  he  had  reached  a  place  where  the  crowds  had  not 
penetrated — only  stragglers  lingered  like  himself — and 
where  the  women  were  of  another  race,  for  now  they 
were  colored. 

"Hello,  Brown  Skin,"  they  greeted  him,  and  he  smiled 
back,  but  didn't  stop — not  even  to  hear  the  secret  that 
almost  everyone  had  to  tell  him. 

"You  are  sure  some  brown,  kid.  Just  come  here  a 
moment.  Don't  be  afraid,  I  won't  eat  you." 

"Indeed,"  he  said  to  one  who  was  very  small,  and  could 
smile  with  more  effect  than  the  others.  "  But  I'm  afraid." 
And  he  laughed  aloud  as  he  went  upon  his  way. 

He  had  stopped  now.  He  had  to;  for,  before  him  was 
a  brick  wall — no,  a  brick  fence.  It  was  painted  white 
and  was  about  eight  or  ten  feet  high;  while  inside  raised 
something  sinister.  "Gee!"  he  exclaimed.  "But  that 
is  a  sight  one  does  not  appreciate." 

He  turned  now,  and  passed  down  a  side  street,  which 
was  occupied  by  the  same.  But  he  couldn't  forget  what 
stood  grim  and  determined  on  the  other  side.  It  had 
been  there  a  long  time  too — before,,  oh,  long  before  these 
women  had.  Yes,  and  it  would  be  there  long  after  they 
had  passed  away,  and  others,  not  yet  born,  had  come  to 
take  their  places.  And  as  he  passed  down  the  street, 
under  the  subtlety  of  those  night  smiles,  that  place  seemed 
to  say — kept  on  saying: 


452  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"Play  on  she  cats!  Oh,  play  on!  Hell's  got  your 
soul;  but  I'll  have  the  rest  by  and  by."  He  turned  the 
next  corner  and  walked  another  block,  and  lo!  There 
stood  another!  "Kick  high  little  girl;  sin  as  you  please; 
Hell's  got  your  hearts,  but  I'll  have  what's  left — I  won't 
say  how  soon.  ..." 

"The  devil!"  he  exclaimed.  "This  is  the  worst  place 
for  cemeteries  I  ever  knew.  I'm  going  away  from  here, 
to  my  room."  And  he  went. 

"Where  dp  the  wealthiest  of  the  wealthy  white  people 
live?"  he  inquired  the  next  morning,  when  he  had 
arisen,  and  dined  at  one  of  the  Chinese  cafes. 

The  others  regarded  him  now  with  a  question  in  their 
eyes.  "Yes,"  he  repeated,  "where  do  they  live,  for  it  is 
to  their  servants  I  prefer  to  try  to  sell  the  book,  for  which 
I  am  agent." 

They  caught  his  logic  then,  and  replied: 

"Take  a  car  at  the  next  corner,  ride  until  you  come  to 
a  park  that  is  called  d'Ubberville.  There  you  unload, 
and  find  yourself  in  the  midst  of  the  wealthiest  of  the 
wealthy." 

He  went  down  to  that  street,  which  was  the  afore 
mentioned  wide  street.  All  that  money  could  buy,  was 
on  sale  along  its  broad  highway.  He  sought  a  book 
store,  where  he  wished  to  make  inquiries,  and,  of  course, 
found  a  number.  He  strolled  about,  making  inquiries, 
until  his  watch  said  it  was  time  to  return,  and  go  forth 
in  quest  of  that  part  of  town,  where  he  wished  to  begin 
his  work. 

It  was  certainly  a  long  way  to  his  destination.  Indeed, 
he  made  inquiries  of  the  conductor,  until  that  one  told 
him  he  would  tell  him  when  they  arrived  at  the  place 
where  he  wanted  to  stop.  So,  he  sat  in  patience  after 
that.  He  allowed  his  eyes  to  feast  upon  the  splendor 
and  magnificence  of  the  beautiful  buildings.  Yes,  they 
were  elegant  homes;  they  were  the  finest  homes;  and 
they  were  beautifully  arranged,  not  to  say  artistically, 
on  either  side  of  the  street,  which,  while  not  the  same, 
was  another  one  just  as  wide.  So  wide,  indeed,  that  the 


"HELLO,  BROWN  SKIN"  453 

middle  was  converted  into  a  lawn,  on  which  many  palms 
reared  their  graceful  foliage. 

"The  creole  city,"  he  murmured.  "For  a  long  time 
I  have  wished  to  see  it  as  it  really  is;  to  know  the  people 
and  to  learn  of  the  many  things  and  wonders  it  is  said  to 
contain." 

"Here  you  are,"  said  the  conductor  at  last,  and  Sidney 
Wyeth  alighted  at  once. 

"Whew!"  he  exclaimed,  standing  entranced,  as  he 
looked  all  about  him.  "Such  homes;  such  trees — such 
everything."  And  then  he  walked  in  the  direction  his 
face  happened  to  be  turned.  He  was  slightly  nervous 
for  a  time,  but  presently,  with  a  bold  front,  he  turned 
into  the  most  insignificant  of  the  many  houses,  and 
rapped  quietly  at  the  back  door. 

"Come  in,"  someone  called,  and  he  knew  the  voice 
belonged  to  one  of  his  race.  He  had  many  times  thought 
it  strange,  but  it  was  always  easy  to  determine  the  Negro 
by  his  voice  alone. 

He  entered,  and  looked  at  the  owner  of  that  same  voice. 
She  was  a  stout,  brown-skinned  woman;  and  there  was 
another  also,  but  she  was  black.  One,  the  large  woman, 
was  the  cook,  for  she  worked  over  the  stove,  while  the 
other  was  obviously  the  washer-woman,  for  she  was 
ironing. 

In  his  talk,  he  told  the  story  of  the  book,  and  filled 
them  with  enthusiasm,  to  a  point  that  both  subscribed. 
He  said  he  was  just  commencing,  and  was  glad  they  had 
favored  him  with  an  order.  He  thanked  them  again, 
and,  turning,  he  left  and  betook  himself  across  the  street, 
where  he  encountered  another  brown-skinned  woman,  but 
she  failed  to  buy.  And  the  excuse  she  gave  for  not 
doing  so,  was  one  he  always  regarded.  She  was  not 
able — having  other  irons  in  the  fire.  He  left  her,  went 
across  the  street  on  another  corner,  and  entered  the  rear 
of  the  smallest  house  he  saw  on  the  street.  He  was 
turning  to  go,  when  another  brown-skinned  woman  put 
in  her  appearance.  She  was  beautiful,  he  thought.  And 
she  could  smile  until  he — well,  she  smiled.  She  said 
she'd  take  one,  to  be  sure,  so  he  wrote  down  her  name, 


454  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

and  asked  her  about  herself.  She  was  married,  and 
laughed  tantalizingly,  though  he  had  not  asked  her  that. 
He  left  presently,  by  the  way  he  had  entered,  and  went 
to  another  house,  and  still  to  another,  until  the  watch 
said  five;  then  he  betook  himself  to  a  car  line.  It  was 
not  the  one  he  had  come  out  on,  and  soon  he  saw  other 
homes,  which  showed  the  creole  element. 

That  night  he  went  rambling;  he  couldn't  seem  to  be 
still.  There  was  so  much  to  be  seen,  and  it  had  a  peculiar 
fascination  for  him.  He  went  in  the  direction  he  had 
gone  the  night  before,  and  met  crowds  of  people.  He 
strolled  until  gay  music  arrested  his  attention.  About 
an  electric  entrance,  from  which  the  music  came,  stood 
colored  men.  He  got  a  peep  inside,  as  some  one  entered, 
and  saw  that  the  occupants  were  Negroes,  so  he  entered. 

A  waiter  showed  him  a  seat  by  a  table.  Around  the 
room  were  plenty  of  others;  there  were  women  and  men, 
and  others  came  and  went  all  the  time.  The  music  had 
ceased  when  he  entered;  but,  'ere  long,  it  struck  up, 
and  the  room  was  filled  with  the  strains.  Couples  arose 
and  stood  face  to  face,  and  did  what  he  had  never  seen, 
as  he  recalled.  The  music  played  was  a  two-step;  but  they 
did  not  two-step — at  least  not  the  way  he  had  done  it 
years  before.  They  made  only  one  step  where  he  had 
made  two.  Across  the  table  from  where  he  sat,  a  girl 
smiled  upon  him  invitingly,  as  much  as  to  say:  " Let's 
dance!"  He  was  tempted,  and  then  he  recalled  that  they 
had  begun  this  dance  since  he  had  quit  some  years 
before.  So  he  kept  his  seat,  and  she  smiled  upon  another. 
He  escorted  her,  and  they  joined  the  dancers.  A  hesita 
tion,  they  called  it,  and  he  was  positive  he  would — could 
never  learn  it. 

Presently  the  music  stopped,  and  the  couple  returned 
to  their  seat. 

"I  know  you  are  going  to  buy  me  a  little  drink/'  she 
said,  whereupon  the  man  said  "nix"  and  left.  She 
glared  after  him,  and  called  him  "cheap." 

Wyeth  was  glad  now  he  had  kept  his  seat.  He  didn't 
like  bold  women,  even  in  a  cabaret,  and  this  was  the 
first  one  he  had  ever  entered. 


"HELLO,  BROWN  SKIN"  455 

It  was  a  place  for  amusements,  he  soon  saw,  for,  between 
dances  came  songs  by  many  girls  and  a  man  or  two, 
while  clever  dancing  and  "ballin'  the  jack"  was  a  feature; 
and  it  attracted  to  the  performers  many  nickels,  that 
they  did  not  hesitate  to  pick  up  'ere  they  had  fallen,  and 
"balled"  again  and  again,  until  it  seemed  their  legs 
must  sure  be  tired;  but  you  see,  they  were  accustomed 
to  that. 

"Some  town,"  he  said  to  himself,  when  he  took  his 
leave.  "A  good  place  to  forget,  to  live?"  Well,  it 
seemed  that  way. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

"Who're  You!''  She  Repeated 

And  now  we  arrive  at  the  end  of  the  pilgrimage  of 
Sidney  Wyeth.  He  had  ceased  his  critical  observations, 
and  had  secured  a  room  on  the  fifth  floor  of  an  office 
building,  that  was  owned  and  controlled  by  a  Negro 
lodge.  He  began  an  effort  toward  the  distribution  of  his 
work,  that  he  believed  would  be  successful  now,  since 
he  had  learned,  by  contact,  the  art  of  reaching  his  people. 

He  placed  a  large  desk  in  the  office,  and  put  a  carpet 
on  the  floor;  a  large  table  for  wrapping  purposes  to  one 
side,  while  upon  the  door  and  the  windows  he  had  an 
artist  painter  inscribe  the  letters: 

CRESENT  DISTRIBUTORS  COMPANY 

"Now,  then,"  he  said,  "if  I  can  induce  someone,  here 
and  there,  to  go  to  the  people  and  follow  the  instructions 
I  will  cheerfully  give,  I  think  The  Tempest  will  be  placed 
into  the  hands  of  many  people.  And  to  that  end,  I  shall 
bend  all  my  energy." 

And  thus  he  began  work  permanently.  He  decided  to 
canvass  every  afternoon,  and  to  attend  to  the  office  and 
correspondence  in  the  mornings,  until  such  a  time,  when 
it  would  not  be  necessary  to  do  so. 

He  filled  the  country  again  with  circular  letters;  but 
before  he  had  completed  this  task,  he  felt  an  illness  per 
vading  his  usual  healthy  physique.  "Biliousness,"  he 
said.  "It'll  be  over  in  a  few  days,"  and  he  went  to  work 
much  harder,  in  an  effort  to  forget  it. 

For  days  he  held  it  in  check  by  the  effort  he  put  forth. 
But,  as  the  days  came  and  went,  it  became  harder.  He 
didn't  go  to  a  physician,  but  waited.  But  before  many 
days  had  passed,  however,  he  became  conscious  that  it 
was  more  serious.  So  there  came  a  day  when  he  felt 

456 


"WHO'RE  YOU?"   SHE  REPEATED        457 

strangely  sick;  when  he  laid  down,  everything  about  him 
swam;  he  felt  dizzy,  but  withal,  he  kept  up  the  fight. 

"I  won't  give  up  to  it,  I  won't!"  he  declared.  And 
he  earnestly  tried  to  overcome  it. ' 

He  arose  from  his  desk,  and,  despite  the  fact  that  his 
knees  trembled  and  his  whole  frame  quivered,  he  went 
into  the  street.  He  felt  a  mad  desire  to  see  this  city, 
although  he  had  been  seeing  it  every  day.  So,  to  the 
wide  street  he  went,  and  boarded  a  car  that  took  him 
around  a  belt.  It  brought  him  back  to  where  he  had 
entered,  and  the  route  was  twelve  miles  long.  It  led  him 
through  the  district  where  he  canvassed,  and  which  was 
occupied  by  the  richest.  He  saw  their  magnificent  homes 
this  time,  strangely.  At  times  his  eyes  would  close, 
despite  his  effort  to  keep  them  open.  And  then,  when 
he  awoke,  it  was  with  a  nervous  start,  and  he  was  sur 
prised  each  time,  to  find  himself  aboard  the  large  cars 
that  thundered  along  between  rows  of  the  finest  houses 
in  the  city. 

He  could  not  interest  himself  in  them  now;  they 
appeared  dull  and  without  life.  The  car  came  down, 
and  went  through  the  business  district  before  it  came 
back  again  into  the  wide  street.  He  go.t  off,  and  almost 
fell  in  doing  so.  He  stood  for  a  time,  at  a  loss  to  control 
himself.  He  wouldn't  go  to  bed,  that  was  sure;  but 
where  to  go,  he  could  not  think  for  a  time.  Then  it 
occurred  to  him  to  see  that  place — that  place  where  a 
thousand  and  more  women,  vandals,  were  hurrying  life 
to  its  end. 

So  he  walked  in  that  direction,  reeling  at  times,  until 
some  regarded  him  as  if  he  were  drunk.  He  passed 
down  a  street  that  was  called  Bienville.  In  that  neigh 
borhood  it  was  the  broad  highway.  And  it  was  crowded. 
It  was  then  about  nine  o'clock,  and  the  sidewalks  were 
filled.  The  girls  were  merry — they  were  always  merry, 
apparently.  .  .  .  They  called  to  him  as  before,  that  is,  a 
part  of  them.  The  others — well,  the  color  line  was 
drawn  here  too,  and  white  men  came  first. 

"  Hello,  Brown  Skin,"  smiled  one  he  had  not  seen  before, 
and  winked.  He  regarded  her  for  a  moment  strangely. 


458  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

She  took  it  as  an  evidence  of  encouragement.  She 
beckoned  to  him  vigorously,  and  promised  so  very  much. 
He  turned,  and  before  him  rose  one  of  the  ghostly,  silent 
places — the  cemetery.  It  aroused  him,  for  a  time,  from 
his  apparent  lethargy.  He  looked  at  it,  and  thought 
how  strange  it  was  this  city  had  so  many.  And  they 
were  always  silent — waiting,  waiting,  waiting. 

He  shuddered  and  moved  away  from  it,  and  in  a 
direction  that  he  had  not  been.  On  all  sides  the  girls 
were  gay  that  night.  He  went  around  a  block,  ignoring 
invitations.  His  brain  was  clear  for  awhile,  and  he 
thought:  "Who  located  such  a  place?"  A  place  where 
each  day  someone  died  and  went  to  hell!  But,  as  he 
thought  the  more,  he  concluded  that  dying  was  not 
necessary.  It  was  a  living  death.  .  .  . 

"Come  in,  Brown  Skin,  not  a  man  has  been  here  to 
night."  He  looked  up,  and  in  the  doorway  stood  a 
woman.  She  was  tall  and  slender,  and  brown.  She 
smiled  with  an  effort,  he  could  see,  for,  in  truth,  the 
woman  was  hungry. 

"I'm  hungry,"  she  faltered,  "and  that's  on  the  square. 
The  landlord  took  every  dime  I  made  last  night,  for  rent 
this  morning.  Not  a  bite  have  I  eaten  this  day.  Every 
day  he  calls  early  for  his  rent.  Business  is  rotten — every 
body's  broke;  but  he  must  have  his  rent,  or  out  into 
the  street  I  go."  She  paused  and  looked  tired,  and 
then  went  on:  "I'm  so  weak.  I'd  slip  out  of  this  hell 
hole,  and  try  to  make  an  honest  living,  but  I  have 
no  clothes,  and  besides,  I'm  afraid  that  while  I  was 
gone,  he  might  come  along  and  turn  the  lock,  and  carry 
the  key  with  him.  And  too,  the  bulls  are  filling  the 
streets  tonight,  and  fly  cops  are  everywhere.  So  I 
might  be  arrested,  and  go  t'  jail.  I  don't  like  that  place 
up  there."  and  she  sighed  a  long  drawn,  weary  sigh. 

"Why  would  you  be  arrested?"  he  inquired,  speaking 
for  the  first  time. 

"Why  would  I  be  arrested?"  she  exclaimed.  "You 
must  not  know  the  rules  of  this  district,"  she  cried. 
"Why,  we  are  not  allowed  to  leave  it.  When  we  enter 
this,  we  agree  to  stay!" 


"WHO'RE  YOU?"   SHE  REPEATED        459 

"To  stay?"    he  echoed. 

"Yes,"  she  replied.  "To  stay.  .  .  ."  He  followed  her 
gaze.  She  was  not  aware  of  what  she  saw,  no  doubt; 
but  he  was.  Before  her  gaze  rose  gray,  grim  and  sinister, 
one  of  those  places — the  abode  of  dead  things.  Yes, 
and  it  was  waiting,  silently  waiting.  He  turned  and 
regarded  the  woman.  She  was  quiet.  A  man  came  by 
crying: 

"Hot  sandwiches — hot  tamales — five    cents    apiece!" 

He  saw  her  gazing  at  them  with  eyes  that  were  dry, 
but  hungry. 

"Here,"  he  cried,  "with  your  sandwiches."  And  then 
turned  to  her: 

"Take  as  many  as  you  want.  All  you  can  eat  tonight, 
and  some  for  tomorrow!" 

Her  eyes  widened.  She  beheld  him  now  with  wonder. 
"Do  you  mean  it?"  she  whispered,  in  a  subdued  voice. 

He  nodded,  and  handed  the  man  a  half  dollar. 

She  ate  ravenously,  while  he  watched.  Presently  he 
started,  while  she  watched  him  strangely,  as  if  he  were 
something  unearthly.  He  turned  suddenly,  and  came  back 
to  where  she  stood.  He  ran  his  hand  into  his  pocket, 
and  drew  forth  three  silver  dollars.  "Here,"  he  said,  and 
a  moment  later  he  was  gone. 

She  stood  transformed,  and  then,  dreamlike,  she  cried 
after  him: 

"God  bless  you!" 

Back  toward  his  room  he  now  walked,  and  at  times 
stumbled.  But  all  the  way  the  words  of  that  woman 
rang  in  his  ears:  "God  bless  you!"  "God,"  he  mur 
mured,  "do  You  know  these  people?  Are  You  acquainted 
with  these  women  who  are  sinning?  They  don't  know 
You!  Their  souls  are  burning  now  in  hell!"  He  didn't 
know  the  direction  he  was  going,  nor  did  he  hear  the 
invitations;  but  soon  he  came  to  one  of  those  walls,  and 
looked  up.  Yes,  they  were  inside.  .  .  .  Those  who  had 
known  this  life  in  the  infinite  long  ago.  And  they  were 
waiting  for  those  others.  .  .  . 

"Brown  Skin,"  he  now  heard,  and  then  much  gayety 
followed;  but  he  looked  up  and  saw  the  others,  who 


460  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

were  likewise  waiting.  "Sin  on  little  girl.  Satan's  got 
your  soul,  and  you'll  burn  in  hell  some  day." 

He  went  a  block  where,  on  one  side  the  gray  silence 
greeted  him,  while  on  the  other  gay  life  was  the  order. 

"Come  in  boy,  I've  something  to  tell  you."  But 
Sidney  Wyeth  made  no  answer;  all  the  while  he  could 
feel  that  silent  spectre,  the  grave.  And  it  seemed  to  say: 
"We  are  waiting,  waiting,  waiting." 

He  went  now  in  the  direction  of  his  room,  and  as  he 
went  along,  the  gray  court  kept  telling  him:  "These  are 
mine — all  of  them.  And,  do  you  know,  they  come  to  me 
each  day.  Oh,  they  are  gay — now!  The  devil's  got 
their  souls,  but  I  always  get  the  rest.  Meanwhile  I  am 
waiting,  patiently  waiting." 

Gay  music  came  from  the  doors  of  a  cabaret,  and  he 
saw  it  was  for  colored  people.  White  people  were  not 
allowed  within.  He  entered.  The  accustomed  crowd 
lined  the  walls.  The  same  girls  came  each  night — he  now 
saw.  They  welcomed  those  who  wished  for  drinks, 
which  came  at  fifteen  cents  apiece;  a  half  of  which 
they  received  at  the  end  of  the  night,  and  that  was  how 
they  lived. 

He  avoided  them.  On  the  floor  were  the  dancers. 
The  music  was  inspiring,  and  "balling  the  jack"  was  the 
order.  A  rain  of  nickels  came  down  upon  them,  and  they 
quit  only  when  they  were  exhausted. 

He  was  awakened  by  a  waiter,  at  the  table  where  he 
had  fallen  asleep.  So  he  ordered  a  drink,  gulped  it  down 
with  an  effort,  and  took  his  leave.  He  emerged,  and  had 
walked  a  few  steps,  when  someone  touched  him.  He 
looked  down  into  the  face  of  the  woman  who  had  been 
hungry. 

"Who're  you?"  she  said.  "Who're  you?"  she  repeated, 
"to  feed  a  starving  wench  and  ask  nothing.  Don't  look 
at  me  so  strangely.  I  followed  you.  I  saw  you  enter  there. 
I  would  have  followed  you  in;  but  they  don't  allow  us 
in  there.  .  .  .  They  don't  allow  us  anywhere  but — oh,  well, 
I  didn't  come  to  tell  you  my  troubles.  And  then,"  she 
added,  "I  wouldn't  wish  to  disgrace  you  by  having 
others  see;  but  won't  you  come  back?" 


"WHO'RE  YOU?"   SHE  REPEATED        461 

He  gazed  down  into  her  eyes  and  saw  the  truth  therein. 
"A  lost  soul.  .  .  .  Yes,  a  lost  soul."  And  then  something 
within  him  seemed  to  burst.  The  world  about  him 
became  a  maze  of  darkness,  and  he  knew  no  more. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

"At  Last,  Oh  Lord,  At  Last!" 

Mrs.  Ernestine  Jacques  very  soon  became  devoted  to 
her  roomer,  Mildred  Latham.  She  told  her  husband  as 
much  when  she  had  been  in  the  house  a  few  days. 

"She's  a  delightful  girl,  a  fine  companion,  and  I  am 
glad  she  made  inquiry  of  you  in  regard  to  lodging." 

"I  am  pleased  to  hear  it,"  said  her  husband.  "I  am 
glad  to  have  found  you  a  companion,  and  now  you  won't 
miss  me  so  much,  will  you?" 

"Of  course,  I  will,"  she  pouted.  "I  didn't  mean  that," 
she  said.  "But  women,  you  know,  seem  to  require 
friends,  even  when  they  have  the  best  husbands  in  the 
world." 

We  leave  them  at  this  point,  and  return  to  the  subject 
of  their  conversation,  who  had  begun  a  canvass  in  the 
sale  of  Wyeth's  book,  and  had  met  with  success,  which  is 
neither  unusual  nor  strange,  since  it  depends  upon  the 
efforts  of  the  worker. 

She  estimated  that  he  would  confine  his  work  to  the 
aristocratic  section,  where  the  multitude  of  servants 
were,  so  she  decided  to  try  the  colored  people  in  their 
homes,  to  begin  with.  Therefore,  from  one  she  learned 
of  others,  until  she  had  a  list  of  people  whom  she  worked 
among,  and  with  excellent  results.  She  became  an 
attendant  of  the  Methodist  church,  where  she  met 
many,  and  made  acquaintances  that  increased  the  success 
of  her  work.  And  thus  her  life  flowed  serenely  along, 
uneventful  for  many  weeks.  But  she  had  not  seen  or 
heard  of  the  one  she  sought,  although,  in  the  course  of 
time,  she  came  across  the  book,  and  knew  it  had  been 
bought  from  him. 

It  rained  at  times,  until  whole  days  were  lost,  for  it 
was  too  wet  to  enter  nice  homes.  She  stayed  in  her 

462 


"AT  LAST,  OH  LORD,  AT  LAST!"         463 

room  at  these  times,  and  talked  with  Mrs.  Jacques  as 
little  as  possible,  although  she  longed  to  do  so  very 
much.  She  was  glad  to  see,  as  the  time  went  on,  that 
the  two  were  devoted  to  each  other.  Dr.  Jacques  was  a 
good  man,  and  was  even  a  better  husband. 

"Some  day,"  she  sighed,  "maybe  I'll  be  like  that." 
She  pondered  now  for  some  time. 

Mildred  had  reached  no  decision,  as  yet,  in  regard  to 
her  plans.  She  was  nervous,  at  times,  on  the  street, 
fearing  she  might  meet  Sidney.  She  worked  hard  to 
occupy  herself,  and  thus  it  went  along,  until  she  had 
gotten  her  work  well  under  way. 

"Have  you  ever  been  up  in  the  Perier  building?" 
a  lawyer,  who  purchased  a  book,  inquired  of  her. 

"No,  sir,  I  have  not.  Where  is  that,  and  are  there 
colored  people  about  it?"  she  said. 

"Yes,  ma'am.  It  is  a  building  occupied  and  owned  by 
Negroes.  There  are  a  great  many  people  located  in  it 
who  would  buy  the  book,  I  am  sure,"  he  informed  her. 
"I  would  advise  you  to  go." 

"I  thank  you  ever  so  much,  indeed,"  she  cried  grate 
fully.  "I  shall  go  there  tomorrow." 

The  next  day  was  a  beautiful  one;  the  air  was  fragrant 
with  the  perfume  of  roses,  and  the  birds  sang,  seemingly, 
everywhere. 

"A  storm  of  some  proportion  will  reach  this  place 
before  night,"  said  Dr.  Jacques.  "A  day  that  begins  as 
this  one,  always  ends  that  way!" 

"My  husband  is  a  weather  prognosticate,"  com 
mented  his  wife,  humorously.  Mildred  smiled  knowingly 
from  across  the  table. 

"And  you  have  been  very  successful  with  your  work, 
Miss  Latham?"  said  he,  surveying  her  appreciatively. 

"Oh,  very  much  so.  But  it  has  been  so  elsewhere." 
She  told  him  of  her  work  in  the  city  she  had  just  left. 

"It  was  a  strange  coincidence,"  said  he,  "how  they 
came  to  secure  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  in  that  town.  I  keep 
myself  pretty  well  informed  regarding  uplift  among  our 
people,  and  it  was  truly  a  delight  when  I  read,  that,  at 
almost  the  last  minute,  money  that  was  lacking,  but 


464  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

necessary  to  fulfil  the  requirements,  was  brought  to 
hand. 

"It  was  too  bad  Grantville  failed  in  the  effort  to  secure 
theirs.  And  they  wanted  it  so  badly,"  the  doctor  con 
tinued.  "  I  attended  school  in  that  city,  and  always  have 
a  warm  spot  in  my  heart  for  the  place." 

"Well,  dear,"  said  his  wife,  "how  did  they  come  to 
fail  in  the  effort  in  Grantville,  and  succeeded  in  this 
other  town?  I  understood  you  to  say  that  Grantville 
had  a  much  more  intelligent  set  of  colored  people,  and 
more  progressive." 

"So  it  has!  So  it  has!"  he  said  quickly;  "but  by 
some  strange  coincidence,  the  money  necessary  to  com 
plete  the  arrangement,  was  brought  forward  at  almost 
the  last  minute.  Otherwise,  they  had  acknowledged 
failure." 

"I  wonder  where  the  money  came  from?"  she  mused. 

"I  suppose  I  must  be  going  about  my  work,"  said 
Mildred,  rising.  "I  am  going  to  canvass  the  Perier 
building  today.  I  have  been  told  there  are  many  offices 
occupied  by  persons  who  might  buy." 

"Most  assuredly,"  said  the  doctor.  "There  are  many 
I  am  sure."  He  was  thoughtful  a  moment,  and  then 
continued:  "Our  people  in  this  town  are  not  possessed 
with  that  race  spirit  which  it  is  claimed  Negroes  have  in 
other  cities.  They  are  accused  of  lacking  unity;  but, 
in  spite  of  that,  when  one  applies  himself  to  the  task 
with  patience  and  fortitude,  enough  of  the  spirit  can  be 
aroused  to  make  work  like  yours  remunerative.  But, 
nevertheless,  I  am  often  distressed  when  I  realize,  that 
we  haven't  a  first  class  local  race  paper  here;  for,  with 
out  one,  it  is  impossible  to  reach  the  people — the  colored 
people — through  advertising,  unless  a  high  rate  is  paid 
in  the  columns  of  the  white  paper,  and  that  is  not 
practical." 

"Are  you  much  acquainted  in  the  building?"  Mildred 
inquired. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  everybody — that  is,  almost  every 
body.  The  last  time  I  was  over  there,  I  observed  that 


"AT  LAST,  OH  LORD,  AT  LAST!"         465 

an  office  had  been  taken  by  one  who  is  a  stranger  to  me; 
and  I  observed,  also,  that  he  appeared  to  be  studious, 
so  it  might  be  worth  while  to  see  him  too." 

She  thanked  him,  kissed  his  wife,  and  a  few  minutes 
later,  her  steps  died  away  in  the  distance. 

"Dear,"  said  Mrs.  Jacques,  "don't  you  know  that 
she  reminds  me  of  someone  I  knew  a  long  time  ago. 
But  who  it  was,  where  it  was,  I  do  not  know;  but  I 
always  feel  queer  when  she  kisses  me." 

"You're  becoming  fanciful,"  he  smiled,  lighting  a 
cigar. 

They  talked  about  other  subjects,  and  Mildred  was, 
for  the  time,  forgotten. 

"A  story  of  the  northwest,  by  a  Negro  pioneer,  eh?" 
said  a  man,  upon  whose  office  door  was  written:  Real 
Estate,  Loans  and  Renting.  "M-m.  Looks  like  a  good 
book.  Negroes  don't  write  many  books,  although  there 
are  a  great  many  that  come  the  rounds  about  Negroes, 
but  gotten  up  by  whites  with  a  sketch  about  Tom,  Dick 
and  Harry,  and  exaggerated  estimates  of  the  Negro. 
So,  in  view  of  the  fact,  I  guess  you  may  put  me  down 
for  a  copy,  and  deliver  it  next  week." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  she  said,  as  she  wrote  his  name, 
and  the  date  of  delivery. 

"Having  much  success?"   he  inquired. 

"A  great  deal,  I  am  glad  to  say,"  she  replied  pleasantly. 

"Glad  to  hear  that.  There  are  always  readers  to  be 
found,  if  one  looks  for  them;  but,  on  the  whole,  the 
people  of  this  town  have  not  much  of  a  literary  turn  of 
mind." 

"Indeed!" 

"No,  it  is  such  a  care-free,  happy-go-lucky  place,  that 
not  all  the  people  who  should,  try  to  concentrate  them 
selves  in  reading."  He  was  quiet  and  thoughtful  for  a 
moment,  and  then  said:  "Have  you  tried  many  of  the 
school  teachers?" 

"A  great  many,"  she  said. 

"And  how  did  you  find  them?" 

30 


466  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"Well,  just  fair.    I  sold  to  a  few  of  them." 

"A  few  of  them,  eh!  It  would  seem  they  should 
welcome  the  fact  that  Negroes  are  beginning  to  write 
books/' 

"Obviously,  yes." 

"And  the  preachers?" 

"They  buy;  but  some  of  them  dislike  to,  so  much  so, 
that  I  have  dispensed  with  going  to  them." 

"And  the  physicians?" 

"They  are  very  nice."  She  didn't  say  how  nice,  and 
he  didn't  ask,  so  it  ended  there. 

She  went  from  one  office  to  another,  and  almost  all 
purchased.  Some  out  of  real  interest,  while  others  sub 
scribed  merely  through  courtesy  to  her,  and  from  the 
fact  that  it  was  rare  to  meet  colored  people  selling,  or 
trying  to  sell  anything. 

She  had  completed  the  third  floor,  and  was  ascending 
to  the  fourth,  when  the  then  overcast  skies  became 
darker  and  rain  began  falling  fitfully.  She  made  all  the 
offices  on  that  floor  with  her  usual  success,  and  started 
upon  the  fifth.  Twilight  was  gathering,  and,  with  the 
darkness  from  the  clouds,  lights  were  soon  aglow. 

She  had  made  the  fifth  and  was  just  passing  to  the 
elevator,  when  she  chanced  to  spy  an  office  that  she  had 
overlooked,  and,  in  that  moment,  she  recalled  the  doctor's 
statement  about  the  stranger.  The  office  was  at  the 
end  of  the  hall — a  hall  that  was  not  much  used,  evidently. 
Mildred  observed,  as  she  approached,  that  the  door  was 
slightly  ajar.  She  knocked  lightly,  and  then,  receiving 
no  invitation,  pushed  the  door  open  and  entered. 

A  man  sat  at  the  other  side  of  the  room,  and  he  seemed 
to  be  sick,  or  asleep — at  least  he  lay  with  face  down 
ward  across  the  desk,  at  which  he  sat.  She  approached 
him,  disregarding  his  apparent  lethargy,  and  when  she 
had  offered  a  greeting,  and  he  had  raised  himself  slightly, 
she  told  him  the  story  of  the  book. 

He  was  sick,  she  soon  saw,  and  she  felt  sympathetic. 
She  bathed  his  head — his  forehead — with  a  damp  towel; 
then  she  inquired  if  he  felt  better,  and  looked  for  the 
first  time  into  his  face. 


"AT  LAST,  OH  LORD,  AT  LAST!"          467 

"At  last,  oh  Lord,  at  last!"  she  cried,  in  a  subdued 
voice,  as  she  bounded  down  the  steps.  "I  have  found 
him,  I  have  found  him!"  She  walked  hurriedly  on  her 
way  to  the  street,  and  did  not  wait  or  think  of  the  elevator 
that  would  have  saved  her  strength.  When  she  was  on 
the  street,  she  hurried  through  the  rain — for  it  was 
pouring  now — and  did  not  stop  until  the  ferry  had  been 
reached. 

Once  aboard  this,  she  hid  herself  in  the  darkest  place 
she  could  find,  and  there,  as  the  paddle  of  the  propeller 
came  to  her  ears,  she  cried:  "Sidney,  my  Sidney,  I  have 
found  you.  And  never,  never,  until  the  end  of  the 
world  will  I  be  far  from  you — Oh,  my  love!" 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

"Well,  Tm  Going!"  And  She  Went 

"Typhoid-pneumonia,"  said  the  physician,  rising  from 
over  the  patient,  who  had  just  been  brought  to  the 
hospital. 

Sidney  Wyeth,  unconscious,  was  carried  at  once  to  the 
section  of  the  great  hospital  reserved  for  patients  with 
contagious  diseases. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it,  doctor?  Is  it  a  serious 
case,  or  just  a  light  attack?"  inquired  one  of  the  assist 
ants,  who  was  making  a  specialty  of  a  study  of  fever. 

"Serious,"  was  the  reply,  "very  serious.  He  will  be 
lucky  if  he  is  able  to  pull  through." 

"I  just  missed  you,  Miss  Latham,"  said  Dr.  Jacques, 
coming  in  a  few  minutes  after  Mildred  had  entered  the 
house. 

"Indeed,  I  am  sorry!  We  could  have  come  over 
together,"  she  exclaimed,  smothering  her  excitement  for 
the  time,  and  smiling  regretfully,  when  he  had  told  her 
that  he  was  in  the  Perier  building  just  before  she  left. 

"Were  you  very  successful  with  the  people  in  the 
building?"  he  inquired  pleasantly. 

"I  received  eleven  orders  there  today." 

"Too  bad  the  young  man,  the  stranger,  took  sick. 
You  might  have  gotten  a  dozen,"  he  said. 

"Who  took  sick?"   she  inquired,  with  a  start. 

"The  young  man  I  spoke  to  you  about  this  morning," 
explained  the  physician.  "He  was  carried  from  the 
building  shortly  after  you  left,  with  a  serious  attack  of 
typhoid-pneumonia."  He  was  standing  with  his  back 
to  her  when  he  said  this,  and,  therefore,  did  not  see  her 
start  and  open  her  mouth.  She  swallowed  the  exclama 
tion,  and  he  was  no  wiser.  Hurrying  to  her  room,  she 

468 


"WELL,  I'M  GOING!"  AND  SHE  WENT    469 

entered,  locked  the  door,  and  sat  down  with  a  wild  look 
in  her  eyes,  plainly  frightened. 

"Sick,"  she  mumbled.  "Typhoid-pneumonia.  Oh, 
merciful  God!"  She  was  silent  then  for  a  long  time. 
Outside,  the  rain  continued  to  fall,  while  in  the  other 
rooms  she  could  hear  Mrs.  Jacques  singing  softly,  as  she 
busied  herself  in  the  preparation  of  the  evening  meal. 

"If  I  had  only  known,"  Mildred  whispered  to  herself. 
And  then  she  was  compelled  to  dismiss  what  she  was 
thinking  of,  as  being  impractical.  She  continued  to  sit 
and  meditate,  until  she  was  called  to  supper  by  Ernestine. 
She  arose  and  bathed  her  face,  realizing  it  would  be  ad 
visable  to  appear  unconcerned,  for,  as  she  now  estimated, 
she  would  dislike  to  be  questioned. 

When  the  meal  was  over,  she  inquired  of  the  physician 
where  the  patient  had  been  taken. 

"To  the  charity  hospital,"  he  replied. 

"I  see,"  she  said  calmly.    "Is  that  a  good  place?" 

"Oh,  the  best  in  the  south.  The  Sisters  of  Mercy  have 
it  largely  in  charge,  and  they  give  the  best  possible  care 
to  all  patients — black  or  white." 

She  went  to  her  room,  slightly  relieved,  and  fell  at 
once  to  planning. 

The  fact  that  he  had  taken  an  office,  was  self-evident 
that  he  was  preparing  some  extensive  campaign  with 
regard  to  his  book.  As  it  stood  now,  whatever  he  had 
been  arranging  would  stop  at  once. 

It  was  late  that  evening  when  she  retired.  But, 
before  sleep  came  to  her  eyes  that  night,  she  had  decided 
upon  a  course  of  action. 

Mildred  arose  early,  dressed,  heated  some  tea,  and  ate 
a  light  lunch.  Then  she  threw  on  a  dress,  hurried  out  of 
the  house  and  down  to  the  ferry.  An  hour  later,  she  was 
at  the  hospital. 

"I  called,  beg  pardon,"  she  began,  "to  inquire  about 
a  patient  who  was  brought  here  last  evening,  and  who, 
I  understand,  was  stricken  with  typhoid-pneumonia. 
His  name  is  Sidney  Wyeth,  and  he  is  a  colored  man." 

After  a  moment,  in  which  the  record  was  consulted, 
the  informant  turned  to  her  and  said:  "Sidney  Wyeth, 


470  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

a  colored  man,  serious  attack  of  typhoid-pneumonia.  In 
the  ward  of  contagious  diseases.  Cannot  be  seen,  Madam, 
I  regret  to  say." 

"Indeed — ah, — did  you  say — it — was — quite  serious?" 
she  inquired,  tremulously. 

"Quite  serious,  Madam.     Quite  serious." 

"There  is  no  doubt,  however — ah,  that  he  will  re 
cover?" 

"We  are  not  allowed  to  give  put  information  of  that 
nature.  He  may  recover,  and  still  he  may  not;  but  we 
cannot  say." 

"Just  another  question,  sir,"  she  said  hesitatingly. 
"About  how  long  would  it  be,  in  case  he  should  recover, 
before  he  will  likely  be  on  the  street?" 

"Cases  as  serious,  and  of  that  nature,  rarely  leave  the 
hospital  under  two  months,  possibly  three,  and  some 
times  it  is  even  four;  but,  if  he  should  recover,  it  would 
not  be  possible  under  two  months." 

"Very  well,  I  thank  you,"  and,  bowing,  she  left  the 
desk. 

Mildred  walked  down  the  wide  street  upon  which  the 
hospital  faced.  She  had  not  consulted  any  one  else,  and 
in  truth,  had  no  idea  that  the  disease  would  last  so  long. 

"What  can  I  do,  what  can  I  do?"  she  asked  herself 
several  times,  as  she  passed  down  the  street.  "He  has 
just  started  up,  and  to  think  that  such  a  misfortune 
should  overtake  him  at  the  outset." 

She  walked  on  down  the  street,  until  she  arrived  at 
the  corner,  where  she  paused  for  a  moment.  She  turned, 
and  only  a  block  away  rose  the  Perier  building.  She 
could  see  his  office.  It  was  toward  the  rear,  and,  as  she 
stood  looking  up  at  it  meditatively,  she  caught  an  out 
line  of  the  desk  at  which  he  had  sat,  when  she  came 
into  the  office,  with  no  thought  that  she  was  near  him. 

"I  am  going  up  there,  to  the  custodian  of  that  build 
ing,  and — well,  I'm  going,"  and  she  went. 

"Are  you  the  custodian  of  the  building,  sir?"  she 
inquired  a  few  minutes  later,  of  an  elderly  man  with  a 
pointed  beard  and  cleverly  trimmed  mustache. 

"I  am,  Madam,"  he  replied.    "And  at  your  service." 


"WELL,  I'M  GOING!"  AND  SHE  WENT    471 

"A  gentleman,  who  has  recently  taken  an  office  here, 
was  yesterday  stricken  with  typhoid-pneumonia,  and 
was  taken  to  the  charity  hospital." 

"Yes,  Madam,  so  he  was,"  acknowledged  the  other. 
"Too  bad.  He  took  the  office  only  a  short  time  ago, 
and  seemed  to  be  a  very  progressive  young  man.  You 
are  acquainted  with  him?"  he  asked,  observing  the 
worried  look  upon  her  face. 

"Yes,  sir.    I  am  acquainted  with  him." 

"Indeed!  I  suppose  you  are  a  relative  or  a  close 
friend,"  he  said,  and  then  paused  before  proceeding. 
"His  office  is  open — that  is,  no  one  is  there  to  attend  to 
it,  and  he  seems  to  be  the  recipient  of  considerable  mail, 
I  have  observed.  So,  if  you  are  interested  in  his  affairs, 
you  may  have  the  key  and  look  after  the  matter,  if  you 
wish  too."  He  was  very  cordial,  and  the  fact  saved  her 
from  explaining  what  she  had  in  view  when  she  entered. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  am  interested  in  his  affairs,  and 
it  is  very  kind  of  you  to  make  the  suggestion.  In  truth, 
it  was  on  his  account  that  I  called  here.  I  should  be 
glad  to  look  after  his  business  while  he  is  indisposed," 
she  ended  bravely  and  kept  her  face  straight. 

The  custodian  gave  her  the  keys,  and  a  few  minutes 
later,  she  found  herself  in  the  small  office,  looking  curi 
ously  and  guiltily  about. 

She  assorted  the  mail,  and  then,  going  through 
what  had  been  opened,  she  soon  got  an  idea  of  his  plans. 
Being  engaged  in  this  same  work,  it  was  easy  for  her  to 
collect  the  broken  threads,  and  resume  his  task.  She 
carefully  opened  the  mail  that  had  come  that  day,  and, 
a  moment  later,  was  typing  replies  to  a  score  or  more, 
in  the  manner  he  would  have  done,  had  providence 
given  him  the  opportunity. 

She  worked  late  that  evening,  and  neglected  to  can 
vass  at  all,  although  it  was  a  beautiful  day. 

She  saw,  by  the  copy  in  one  of  the  drawers,  that  he 
was  advertising  for  agents,  and  in  an  apparently  success 
ful  way.  Now,  it  had  occurred  to  her  before,  that  white 
people  preyed  upon  Negroes  as  agents,  and,  moreover, 
from  her  own  experience,  she  had  come  to  realize  that 


472  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

they  would  (white  agents)  attempt  to  sell  anything,  if 
inducements  were  made  that  seemed  plausible. 

When  she  was  in  her  room  alone  that  night,  she  did 
some  more  planning,  some  figuring,  and  some  estimating. 
In  the  end,  she  decided  to  take  the  risk. 

Being  a  business  woman  had  always  appealed  to  her 
fancy,  and  the  work  was,  to  her,  a  most  absorbing 
diversion.  She  had  learned  how  to  operate  a  typewriter 
when  she  attended  school,  and  was  very  clever  at  short 
hand  also,  could  keep  books  with  proficiency,  and  was 
now  glad  she  had  learned  these  things,  although,  until 
she  had  taken  up  the  sale  of  the  book,  she  had  had  no 
occasion  to  use  her  ability. 

The  following  day,  she  arrived  at  the  office  at  eight 
o'clock  sharp,  and  went  to  work  at  once.  When  the  mail 
came,  she  was  cheered  to  receive  twenty  dollars  in  the 
same,  and  also,  to  note  three  orders  from  agents,  who 
were  selling  the  book  in  other  cities.  She  attended  to 
all  this,  the  packing  and  shipping  of  the  books,  wrote 
replies  to  all  letters,  including  some  of  encouragement  to 
those  who  were  succeeding. 

She  had  lunch  at  a  nearby  cafe,  and  returned  to 
work  immediately.  She  then  made  up  a  list  of  carbon 
copies,  which  she  mailed  before  going  home,  to  several 
newspapers  all  over  the  country,  inclosing  a  money  order 
in  each  to  cover  the  cost  of  insertion. 

"And  now/'  she  sighed,  "I  am  happy.  I  feel  better 
than  I  have  felt  for  some  time.  .  .  ."  She  closed  her 
eyes  meditatively,  and  thought  of  him.  Would  he  sur 
vive?  Typhoid-pneumonia  was  a  dreadful  disease,  and 
she  was  considerably  worried.  When  she  retired  that 
night,  she  prayed  a  long  prayer,  and  went  to  sleep  with 
a  smile  upon  her  lips,  at  peace  with  the  world,  and  with 
hopes  for  the  best. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

"/  Hope  You — Won't — Won't  be  Angry" 

"We  cannot  give  out  information  as  to  the  condition 
of  the  patient,  Madam,"  said  the  informant  at  the 
hospital,  when  Mildred  had  called  to  inquire  regarding 
the  condition  of  her  lover.  She  turned  wearily  away, 
and  went  back  to  the  office. 

She  was  anxious  to  know  the  worst,  if  it  came  to  that, 
and  was  worried  daily,  until  she  could  not  restrain  the 
desire  to  visit  the  hospital  each  morning,  before  she 
went  about  the  duties  she  had  preempted. 

"He  is  not  dead,"  she  whispered  to  herself,  "and  if 
I  go  each  day,  I  can  work  with  my  mind  at  peace; 
whereas,  I  would  surely  go  crazy,  if  I  were  compelled  to 
go  along,  and  not  know  whether  he  is  living  or  dead." 

Two  weeks  passed  and  he  still  lived,  and  at  the  end 
of  that  time,  she  was  advised  at  the  hospital,  that  recovery 
was  expected,  but  that  he  would  be,  in  all  likelihood, 
unable  to  leave  the  hospital  under  two  months  from 
that  date. 

She  went  to  the  office  that  day  in  the  highest  spirits, 
and  was  especially  cheered  to  find  a  pile  of  letters  in 
answer  to  the  advertisements.  Replies  were  many  dur 
ing  the  following  days.  In  due  course  of  time,  she  had 
secured  a  large  number  of  agents,  and  a  greater  portion, 
upon  following  her  instructions,  were  successful.  Orders 
for  books  began  to  fill  the  office,  and  after  she  had  been 
in  charge  of  the  office  a  month,  she  was  pleased  to  see 
that  she  was  actually  succeeding.  Each  mail  brought 
money  and  express  orders,  and  then,  the  work  being  too 
heavy  for  one,  she  looked  about  for  a  stenographer  to 
help  her.  She  was  successful  in  securing  a  very  intelligent 
girl,  a  creole,  with  French  ways  and  a  command  of  that 


473 


474  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

tongue  which,  at  times,  especially  when  excited,  conflicted 
with  her  English  to  a  degree  that  was  amusing. 

As  the  days  went  by,  business  increased,  until  at  the 
end  of  six  weeks,  more  than  a  thousand  dollars  was 
finding  its  way  to  the  office  each  week.  Mildred  was 
encouraged,  she  was  delighted.  She  deposited  the  money 
to  his  credit  in  a  savings  account,  and  used  only  what 
was.  necessary  for  expenses  and  for  her  own  living.  She 
became  so  enthusiastic  over  the  same,  that  she  almost 
forgot  he  would  return,  and  then — but  she  got  no  further. 

"He  will  be  able  to  leave  the  hospital  in  two  weeks, 
possibly  ten  days,"  the  informant  advised  her  the  last 
day  she  called,  which  was  eight  weeks  after  he  had 
taken  sick.  It  was  only  then  that  she  became  fully 
appreciative  of  the  position  she  held.  She  now  became 
uneasy,  as,  after  thinking  it  over  for  some  time,  she 
was  unable  to  decide  what  to  do.  The  business  was  now 
so  heavy,  that  it  was  impossible  to  be  away  from  it; 
money  came  in  each  mail,  and  sometimes  in  large  sums, 
while  orders  and  inquiries  for  the  agency,  kept  her 
dictating  letters  for  hours  each  day.  She  permitted  her 
self,  that  day  and  other  days  that  followed,  to  become 
the  heroine  in  a  wild  dream.  She  saw  him  well,  which 
he  would  be  soon,  and  she  fancied  how  much  she  could 
help  him.  But  always,  when  she  recalled  the  past,  there 
came  a  choking,  and  she  would  turn  desperately  to  her 
work  in  order  to  forget. 

"And  yet,"  she  said  to  herself  one  day — and  that  was 
only  a  few  days  before  he  was  expected  to  return — "I 
must  do  something.  I  cannot  sit  here  and  allow  him 
to  walk  in  upon  me,  because — he,  oh,  I'm  afraid  he 
might  resent  it." 

One  morning  the  mail  was  heavier  than  usual,  because 
it  was  Monday,  and  Saturday  had  been  a  holiday. 
Springtime  had  come,  with  its  time  of  blossom,  and  the 
air  was  fragrant.  She  hummed  a  little  tune  and  was 
happy  that  day;  happier  than  she  had  been  for  a  long 
time.  She  went  about  the  great  amount  of  work  with  a 
calmness  and  precision,  that  resulted  in  finishing  it 
before  five  o'clock.  Ordinarily,  there  was  enough  to 
have  kept  them  busy  until  the  next  day  noon. 


"I  HOPE  YOU— WON'T  BE  ANGRY!"      475 

"Well,  Katherine,"  she  said  to  the  stenographer,  "we 
have  been  very  industrious  today,  and  I  am  going  to 
bring  you  something  nice  tomorrow.  You  are  very 
helpful,"  and  with  a  quick  impulse  she  kissed  the  other, 
who  returned  it  as  affectionately. 

In  that  moment,  she  almost  felt  inclined  to  tell  the 
girl  the  burden  that  was  upon  her,  but  she  thought 
better  of  it  quickly,  and,  with  a  kind  word,  she  turned 
to  her  desk,  and  for  a  time  listened  to  the  other's  footstep 
in  the  hallway,  where  she  moved  occasionally,  while 
waiting  for  the  elevator. 

From  a  drawer  she  took  some  letters,  and  glanced 
over  them  reflectively.  They  were  letters  from  a  girl 
she  recognized  in  the  story,  and  from  their  tone,  she  sur 
mised  that  the  other  had  once  loved  him.  That  love, 
however,  had  changed  in  the  course  of  events,  and  now 
they  were  only  friends. 

She  sat  for  a  long  time  and  gazed  dreamily  out  over 
the  city,  and  then,  suddenly,  it  occurred  to  her,  that  she 
was  sitting  in  the  same  position  he  had  occupied,  when 
she  had  entered  his  office  almost  ten  weeks  before.  She 
stirred  uneasily.  At  that  moment  a  step  sounded  in 
the  hall,  and  came  in  the  direction  of  the  office.  It 
paused  a  minute  outside  the  door,  and  then  it  was  opened, 
and  some  person  stood  on  the  threshold. 

It  was  getting  dark,  and  as  the  man  paused,  she 
observed  that  he  looked  about  the  office  strangely — doubt 
fully.  In  so  far  as  he  knew,  he  had  felt  the  office  was  a 
thing  of  the  past,  and  at  this  moment  he  muttered: 
"Hump.  Guess  someone  else  is  in  this  place."  Presently, 
with  another  muttering,  he  came  toward  the  window. 
Mildred  sat  stupified,  and  seemed  unable  to  move  any 
part  of  her  body.  She  felt  strangely  paralyzed.  When 
he  got  near  the  middle  of  the  room,  he  suddenly  bethought 
himself  of  the  light,  and  turning,  he  went  to  the  wall, 
where  the  switch  was  located,  and  pressed  the  button. 

She  had  rearranged  the  office,  that  is,  she  had  added 
to  the  number  of  lights,  since  there  were  only  two  bulbs 
when  she  came.  Now  there  were  six.  Over  the  desk  set 
one,  and  it  had  a  reflector.  When  he  pressed  the  button, 


476  THE  FORGED    NOTE 

the  room  became  instantly  illuminated  by  the  bright 
rays,  while  the  one  on  the  desk  reflected  full  into  her 
face. 

She  said  something  and  turned  her  face,  while  he  gave 
a  start  and  cried: 

"You!" 

The  next  moment,  he  fell  back  and  observed  her 
strangely.  She  sat  as  he  had  found  her,  with  head 
lowered  and  heart  thumping  violently.  He  advanced 
after  a  pause,  and  stood  close  to  her,  regarding  her  with 
a  look  that  was  stranger  still.  He  appeared  to  be  at  a 
loss  what  to  say  or  do;  then  he  raised  his  hand  to  his 
forehead,  while  his  gaze  was  one  of  utter  blankness.  It 
occurred  to  her  then,  that  he  might  be  impaired  in  some 
way,  after  such  a  severe  illness.  So,  with  an  effort,  she 
rose  boldly  from  the  chair,  and  facing  him,  said: 

"Yes,  it  is  I,  Sid — Mr.  Wyeth."  She  was  compelled, 
by  the  thumping  of  her  heart,  to  hesitate  for  a  moment, 
and  then  she  continued,  more  calmly:  "I  have  made 
bold  to  come  here  during  your  illness,  and — and — take 
charge  of  your  work.  I  hope,"  she  was  now  faltering, 
while  he  was  regarding  her  without  understanding,  from 
the  expression  he  wore.  And — oh!  She  saw  it  now. 
He  was  regarding  her  with  disfavor.  A  frown  played 
about  his  lips  that  appeared  drawn  and  thin,  while  his 
eyes  gradually  changed  until  they  were  openly  hostile- 
contempt  almost  could  be  read.  She  turned  her  eyes 
away. 

This  was  her  reward.  She  choked.  Her  brain  became 
a  whirl  for  a  moment.  She  had  tried  to  help  him,  and 
had  succeeded.  She  had  thought  of  it  in  that  way; 
she  now  strangely  realized  that  she  had  not  expected 
any  thanks — indeed,  she  had  never  thought  of  anything 
but  to  make  the  business  a  success.  And,  she  was  posi 
tive,  that  she  had  not  expected  any  reward. 

She  was  saying  something.  She  was  not  fully  aware 
what  it  was,  and  her  head  hung  down,  while  her  eyes 
sought  the  floor,  instead  of  his  face  with  the  hostile 
expression. 

"I  hope  you — won't — won't  be  angry!"  With  a  great 


"I  HOPE  YOU— WONT  BE  ANGRY!"      477 

effort,  during  which  she  felt  he  was  regarding  her  in  the 
same  critical  manner,  although  she  was  careful  not  to 
glance  into  his  face,  she  explained  briefly  what  had 
transpired  during  his  absence.  "And  so,"  she  concluded, 
"here  is  everything  drawn  down  to  date,"  and  with 
that,  she  suddenly  caught  up  her  light  coat,  drew  her 
turban  hat  over  her  head,  and  went  toward  the  door. 

As  she  did  so,  she  was  aware  that  he  had  turned  and 
was  looking  after  her.  She  paused  when  she  reached 
the  door,  and  thought  of  his  illness.  He  might  take  sick 
again.  She  saw  his  eyes  now  for  a  brief  moment,  and 
they  were  upon  her.  She  could  not  read  them  alto 
gether,  but  it  seemed  as  if  the  hostility  was  gone,  and  a 
look  that  bordered  on  appeal  had  taken  its  place.  Her 
gaze  lingered  kindly,  and  then  she  said: 

"You  are  ill — have  been.  Please  be  careful."  And, 
in  spite  of  the  effort  it  cost  her  to  say  it,  she  added: 
"I  will  come  again  tomorrow,"  and  was  gone. 

All  that  night  she  tossed  and  tumbled  in  her  little  bed 
in  Tunis.  And  when  morning  came,  she  dropped  off  to 
sleep.  Mrs.  Jacques  called  her,  and  then  came  to  the 
room  and  knocked  at  the  door.  Presently,  she  ventured 
to  open  it  slightly.  Mildred  was  snoring  peacefully. 

"She's  tired,  poor  thing.  Very  tired."  She  looked  a£ 
her  again.  Her  face  was  upturned  and  her  throat  was 
exposed.  A  beautiful  brown  throat.  She  crossed  the 
room  easily  to  where  she  lay,  gazed  down  at  her  for  a 
moment,  and  became  conscious  again  of  that  same 
feeling  that  had  been  haunting  her  since  she  knew  her. 
She  stopped  presently,  and  drew  the  lace  night  dress 
down  a  bit.  The  next  moment  she  recoiled  in  fright. 

"At  last,  oh  God!  At  last  I  have  found  her!  My 
sister ! "  The  other  stirred .  Light  shown  brightly  through 
the  window,  for  it  was  seven-thirty,  and  the  sun  was 
climbing.  But  Mildred  Latham  was  tired,  and  was 
snoring  again  in  calm  repose.  The  other  bent  over  her. 
She  kept  from  putting  her  arms  about  her  with  much 
effort,  and  then  kissed  her  lips  fondly. 

She  stood  a  few  feet  away,  and  regarded  her  with  a 
heavenly  feeling,  and  then,  drawing  the  blind  until  the 
room  was  fully  dark,  she  left  her. 


CHAPTER  TEN 
Vellun  Parish — Jefferson  Bernard 

Sidney  Wyeth  sat  for  a  long  time  at  his  desk  after  he 
had  looked  through  the  statement  before  him.  He  could 
not  for  some  time  understand  how  it  had  all  come  about. 
He  had  been  carried  from  the  office  unconscious  ten  weeks 
before,  and  during  that  time,  or  when  he  had  come  back 
into  his  senses  after  many  weeks,  he  had  concluded  that 
his  effort,  which  had  not  gone  very  far,  was  doomed  to 
die,  and  had  resigned  himself  to  the  inevitable.  Now 
before  him  was  a  statement,  which  showed  that  more 
than  a  thousand  dollars  was  finding  its  way  to  the  office 
each  week,  in  excess  of  the  cost  of  the  books.  More 
than  five  thousand  dollars  was  to  his  credit  in  a  local 
bank.  What  miracle  had  been  wrought  to  make  such  a 
profit  in  so  short  a  time — or  any  time  at  all?  It  had 
taken  him  two  years  to  reach  a  fourth  edition  of  this 
book,  while  now  the  copies  before  him  stated  ninth  edition. 
How  had  it  all  happened? 

There  was  but  one  answer,  and  that  was,  Mildred 
Latham. 

He  lived  over  again  the  years  of  the  past.  He  saw  her 
as  he  had  met  her  on  that  first  day.  He  recalled  her 
patience  and  appreciation,  while  he  explained  to  her  the 
contents  of  the  book,  and  the  order  she  had  given.  He 
remembered  the  dance  and  the  kiss,  with  a  strange  pang 
of  the  heart.  In  all  his  days,  no  kiss  had  seemed  like 
that.  And  the  look  in  her  eyes  afterward.  Was  that 
love?  Surely  that  was  life.  If  God,  our  Creator,  made 
that  possible,  then  life  was  worth  the  effort.  He  became 
so  absorbed  in  his  reflections,  that  he  started  when  he 
recalled  his  last  visit. 

After  that  it  was  different.  But  for  that — but  he  had 
worried  himself  sick,  and  had  succeeded  in  forgetting  it 

478 


VELLUN  PARISH  479 

and  her  until  the  day  he  took  sick.  He  was  too  weak  and 
torn  by  the  illness  to  think  about  the  matter,  while  he 
lay  on  his  back  in  the  hospital.  But  when  convalescence 
had  set  in,  he  had  thought  of  it  almost  constantly.  Try 
as  he  would,  he  had  been  unable  to  understand  how  it  all 
happened.  He  pondered  over  it  until  he  entered  the  office 
an  hour  ago,  and  now  it  was  all  plain. 

"Who  is  this  girl?"  he  asked  himself.  "What  is  she?" 
he  demanded.  "She  has  always  puzzled  me."  But,  at 
the  end  of  it  all,  the  old  hag  on  the  steps,  with  the  words 
she  had  spoken,  rose  again  before  him,  and  he  forgot — he 
felt  he  was  compelled  to  forget,  all  the  rest. 

He  got  up,  after  a  time,  and  walked  about  the  office. 
He  felt  tired,  and  in  view  of  her  success,  and  of  the  cir 
cumstances  surrounding  it,  he  would  go  somewhere  and 
rest,  until  he  had  thought  it  all  out.  But  of  one  thing  he 
was  certain,  and  that  was  he  must  never  see  her  again. 
He  could  love  her;  he  could  do  anything  within  his 
power  for  her — he  was  only  too  glad  to;  but  he  felt  he 
could  never  forget  the  few  words  he  had  heard  a  long 
time  ago. 

So  he  wrote  a  letter  to  the  effect  that  he  had  gone  away, 
but  he  did  not  state  where. 


"Oh,  I  have  overslept  myself  dreadfully,"  cried 
Mildred,  entering  the  kitchen  where  the  other  worked 
away  in  silence. 

"I  started  to  awaken  you,  and  you  were  resting 
so  quietly,  that  I  desisted,"  Mrs.  Jacques  replied,  re 
garding  her  with  a  fond  glance  that  the  other  did  not 
understand. 

"  I  must  hurry,  for,  of  all  mornings,  this  is  the  very  one 
I  would  not  have  been  late  for  anything,"  and  she 
hurried  through  her  breakfast  and  was  turning  to  go, 
when  the  other  came  up,  threw  her  arms  about  her  im 
pulsively,  and  kissed  her  long  and  lingeringly  upon  the  lips. 
Mildred  returned  the  embrace,  but  she  did  not  under 
stand  the  expression  in  the  eyes  of  the  other,  as  she  took 
her  leave. 


480  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

She  arrived  at  the  office,  and  was  surprised  to  find  only 
Katherine  working  away  on  the  books. 

"Has — ah,  any  one  been  here?"  she  inquired,  after 
waiting  to  hear  something  from  the  lips  of  the  other. 

"No,  ma,am,  no  one,"  said  the  other,  looking  up  in 
surprise  for  a  moment. 

"Very  well,"  said  Mildred,  seating  herself  at  her  desk. 
As  she  did  so,  her  eyes  fell  upon  an  envelope  with  her 
name  written  across  it,  and  marked  personal.  She  broke 
the  seal  nervously.  Calming  herself,  she  straightened  out 
the  folded  sheet,  and  read  it  carefully. 

Miss  Mildred  Latham, 

My  Dear  Madam: 

It  is  impossible  to  state  how  much  you  have  done  for  the  sale 
of  the  book  during  my  illness.  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say,  that  in 
view  of  the  fact  that  I  have  struggled  over  a  period  of  two  years, 
with  only  a  small  measure  of  success,  as  compared  to  that  which 
has  come  about  since  you  have  looked  after  it,  that  it  is  beyond  me. 
I  cannot,  however,  conscientiously  accept  it  in  the  way  you  have 
offered  it  according  to  your  statement.  So  I  have,  therefore,  made 
over  to  you  the  sum  total  that  you  placed  in  the  bank  to  my  credit. 

I  am  leaving  the  city  for  parts  unknown,  and  may  not  return 
for  a  long  time — and  possibly  not  at  all. 

Regretting  that  I  cannot  thank  you  more  amply,  but  hoping  you 
will  accept  what  is  no  more  than  due  you,  I  am, 

Very  sincerely  yours, 

SIDNEY  WYETH. 

She  laid  the  letter  down  and  gazed  into  space  for  a 
long  time,  not  trying  to  understand  anything.  He  had 
gone,  and  left  her.  He  had  given  her  all  she  had  earned, 
and  the  privilege  of  earning  more,  but  he  had  gone. 
Would  he  ever  return?.  .  .  .  She  was  sorry  now  that 
she  didn't  tell  him  all  when  it  had  been  convenient;  and 
still,  in  the  next  thought,  she  was  glad  she  hadn't. 

She  was  not  excited,  but  went  about  the  work  without 
any  outward  sign  that  she  had  been  the  recipient  of  any 
thing  unusual;  but  all  the  day  through,  she  was  thinking 
of  what  had  just  passed.  She  could  not  recall  what  she 
had  expected,  or  that  she  had  expected  anything;  but  of 
one  thing  she  was  more  conscious  than  ever  before,  and 
that  was  that  she  loved  him  with  all  her  soul. 


VELLUN  PARISH  481 

So  she  decided  to  allow  matters  to  drift  along  and  made 
no  change. 

Wyeth  stood  before  the  window  of  the  city  ticket  office 
of  a  small  railroad.  He  was  attracted  by  a  parish  which 
appeared  rather  remote,  but  where  a  lake  was  advertised 
as  a  nice  place  to  fish.  He  made  up  his  mind  to  go  there. 
It  was  a  half  day's  journey  by  rail,  and  a  train  left  in 
two  hours.  He  returned  to  his  room,  and  an  hour  later 
his  trunk  was  at  the  depot.  He  passed  near  the  building, 
and  from  where  he  paused,  he  caught  a  sight  of  her 
sitting  at  the  desk  where  she  had  sat  the  night  before. 

He  could  go  to  her  now,  and  say  what  had  been  on  his 
lips  more  than  a  year  before.  He  gazed  at  her  for  a  long 
time,  and  was  conscious  of  a  longing.  He  had  loved  her 
—oh,  so  very  much.  Indeed,  she  was  everything  he  had 
desired.  Then  he  thought  of  the  hag  and  what  she  had 
said,  and  went  his  way  to  the  depot. 

Vellun  Parish  is  perhaps  the  most  remote  part  of  the 
state.  It  lies  toward  the  southwest,  and  is  bounded  on 
one  side  by  the  Gulf  of  Mexico.  Its  land  is  all  swamp, 
while  no  part  of  it  is  more  than  ten  feet  above  the  level 
of  the  sea.  The  most  of  it  is  under  perhaps  a  foot  of 
water.  Upon  the  dry  portion  a  few  people  live.  They 
make  no  effort  to  raise  crops  further  than  a  garden,  but 
depend  mostly  upon  fishing,  and  upon  tourists  for  their 
living.  One  railroad  pulls  through  the  mighty  swamps 
about  it,  and  has  a  small  station  located  on  this  dry 
spot.  It  is  many  miles  to  another  station.  Almost 
everybody  leaves  the  place  in  summer,  for  mosquitoes 
hold  sway,  while  sickness  and  swamp  fever  are  prevalent. 

It  was  high  noon  at  this  resort,  and  from  down  the 
track  could  be  heard  the  whistle  of  a  small  locomotive — 
for  the  trestles  would  not  hold  up  large,  heavy  ones, 
Presently,  with  a  ringing  of  bells,  it  came  to  a  stop  before 
the  station,  and  two  people  got  off,  other  than  members 
of  the  train  crew.  One  from  the  rear,  and  the  other  from 
the  front  of  the  Jim  Crow  car. 

31 


482  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

The  latter  was  Sidney  Wyeth,  and  in  his  hands  he 
carried  a  fishing  outfit  and  other  matter,  together  with  a 
suit  case.  Before  the  station  loafed  a  few  of  the  inhab 
itants,  including  an  old  man  whose  age  was  perhaps 
sixty.  He  regarded  Wyeth  strangely,  but  returned  the 
nod  curteously,  when  the  other  had  spoken. 

"Have  any  idea  where  I  can  find  lodging  about  here?" 
he  inquired.  It  was  at  the  end  of  the  winter  season,  and 
those  who  live  the  summer  months  through,  had  re 
signed  themselves  to  the  heat  and  mosquitoes.  The  old 
man  surveyed  Wyeth  a  moment  critically  before  replying. 

"Well,  I  dunno  exactly,"  said  he  at  last,  and  Wyeth 
was  startled  at  his  command  of  language,  for  in  those 
parts  few  spoke  English,  and  when  they  did  it  was  bad. 
Creole  was  customary.  The  old  man  looked  about  a 
moment  before  continuing,  but  presently  he  said.  "I 
live  alone  over  beyond  that  clump  of  trees,"  and  he 
pointed  to  a  grove  that  Wyeth  saw  plainly,  "and  if 
you  are  alone,  you  might  go  along  and  look  it  over,  and 
if  satisfied,  why  we  might  make  a  deal." 

"That's  fair  enough,"  agreed  Wyeth.  "I'm  alone, 
and  may  be  here  a  month,  a  week,  or  it  may  be  three 
months,  I  can't  say." 

"Very  well  then,  follow  me." 

He  took  part  of  the  luggage,  and  they  went  across  one 
of  the  few  cleared  spots  of  the  parish.  Finally  they  came 
to  a  neat  log  house  behind  a  paling  fence,  before  which 
a  dog  barked  viciously.  "Don,  Don,  hush  the  noise,"  the 
old  man  said.  "  He  won't  bite,  but  he  is  fond  of  barking." 
The  dog  now  rolled  on  his  back  at  Wyeth's  feet,  and  they 
soom  became  friends.  Sidney  patted  his  head  and  then 
rolled  him  over,  much  to  the  dog's  delight. 

"Well,  well,  Governor!"  cried  Wyeth  enthusiastically, 
when  they  were  inside,  "but  you're  all  fixed  here,  I 
must  say." 

"Yes,"  said  the  other,  slowly  and  modestly,  "I  guess 
it'll  do  for  an  old  relic  like  me,"  and  he  laughed  humor 
ously.  Wyeth  regarded  him  a  moment,  and  then,  for 
the  first  time  told  him  his  name. 

"And  mine  is  Jefferson  Bernard." 


VELLUN  PARISH  483 

"Well,  Mr.  Bernard,  I  have  always  taken  pride  in  the 
fact  that  I  am  at  home  in  the  open,"  and  he  gazed  out 
the  window  across  the  cleared  spot,  and  into  the  forest 
that  surrounded  the  house. 

"  Glad  to  hear  that,"  cried  the  other.  "  I  was  under  the 
impression  that  you  were  one  of  the  fly  butlers  who  come 
here  with  their  people." 

"No,  I'm  a  sort  of  globe  trotter,  you  might  say.  In 
fact,  at  the  present  I  have  no  plans  whatever  for  the 
future,  so  I  might  bunk  with  you  here  a  few  months. 
Depends  on  how  my  mind  is  at  the  end  of  each  day." 

"Restless,  eh?" 

"That's  it.  Have  spent  eleven  years  on  the  prairies 
of  Dakota,  and  very  often,  the  'Call  of  the  Wild'  gets 
into  my  veins,  and  I  want  to  get  out  where  I  cannot  see 
any  one,  and  sort  of — well,  forget  the  strenuous  ways  of 
life  for  a  while." 

Both  laughed  agreeably. 

"Well,"  said  Jefferson  Bernard.  "I  bunk  here  alone  and 
do  my  own  cooking  of  course,  and  hunt  and  fish  and  read 
and  sleep  whenever  I  get  ready." 

Wyeth  wondered  at  this  man.  About  the  wall  every 
thing  was  clean,  while  the  clothes  the  other  wore  were  a 
forest  suit  of  brown  cloth,  with  lace  boots  and  a  belt; 
his  hat  was  a  broad  brimmed  Stetson.  They  were  all 
the  best  of  material,  and  the  man's  appearance  was 
anything  else  but  the  back- woods  Negro.  He  started  to 
inquire  who  he  was,  but  something  about  the  other  did 
not  invite  familiarity,  so  he  talked  on  other  topics  in 
stead. 

He  had  been  there  two  weeks,  and  had  been  over  all 
the  part  of  the  parish  that  was  accessible,  when  one 
of  the  periodic  rainy  spells  set  in.  For  days  they  were 
unable  to  get  outside  without  getting  wet,  and  at  times 
they  told  a  great  deal  about  themselves. 

"And  that  reminds  me,"  said  Bernard,  "that  you 
spoke  of  Cincinnati  and  that  you  came  south  from  there, 
a  bit  over  a  year  ago.  I,  then,  left  there  after  you  did." 

'Indeed,"   said  Wyeth  in  surprise. 

"Yes,  I  have  been  down  here  a  little  over  a  year  only. 


484  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

I  was  reared  in  this  same  parish  many  years  ago,  and, 
since  then,  I  always  had  a  longing  to  come  back  and 
stay  again  until  I  got  tired  of  it."  He  made  himself 
comfortable  as  he  drew  away  on  a  long  pipe;  while 
Wyeth,  observing  him,  waited  for  the  story  he  had  to  tell. 

"Yes,  I  used  to  live  in  Cincinnati — in  fact,  I  guess 
that  is  what  I  might  call  home,  if  not  this." 

"This  is  news  to  me,"   said  Wyeth. 

The  other  smiled  languidly,  and  went  on: 

"I  used  to  live  on  Walnut  Hill,  and  was  employed  by 
Stephen  Myer,  a  wealthy  retired  merchant,  who  not  only 
was  well-to-do  in  Cinci',  but  owned  a  number  of  inter 
ests  in  the  south,  in  fact,  he  came  to  Cincinnati  from  the 
south  not  so  long  before,  and  never  went  back  again, 
for  he  died. 

"I  was  his  valet  for  years.  Got  acquainted  with  him 
right  here  in  this  parish  one  winter,  when  he  was  staying 
at  the  hotel  over  there,  and  it  was  the  second  winter 
when  he  hired  me  and  took  me  north  with  him. 

"Stephen  Myer  was  a  good  man  at  heart,  but  a  sport 
until  he  died,  and  certainly  believed  in  a  good  time  with 
the  women.  He  loved  his  family,  but  he  would  run 
around,  which  recalls  his  death  whenever  I  think  of  it. 

"He  came  back  from  the  south  about  three  years  ago 
I  think,  and  it  was  not  long  until  I  knew  he  was  keeping  a 
girl  he  had  brought  with  him.  I  paid  the  matter  no 
attention,  because  he  always  had  somebody  before;  but 
strange  to  say,  after  that  he  had  no  other.  It  was  kept 
very  quiet  and  I  knew  nothing  of  it, — that  is,  from  him, 
until  the  night  he  died.  That  took  place  while  we  were 
at  a  hotel  in  Detroit.  His  death  was  due  to  heart  failure, 
but  it  didn't  take  him  as  it  does  most  of  its  victims. 
He  was  conscious  that  he  was  going  to  die,  although  he 
was,  to  all  appearances,  well. 

"It  was  then  he  told  me  the  story. 

"Calling  me  to  his  bedside,  this  is  what  he  said.  I 
do  not  think  I  shall  ever  forget  it,  because  it  was  such 
an  awful  death.  'Jeff/  said  he.  'I'm  going  to  die/  I 
looked  at  him,  saying:  'Oh,  you're  frightened;'  but  he 
shook  his  head  in  such  a  way  that  I  became  frightened, 


VELLUN  PARISH  485 

and  waited.  'Yes,  Jeff/  he  resumed:  'I'm  goin'  to  die, 
and  Jeff,  I'm  going  to  hell.'  I  tried  to  soothe  him, 
but  he  only  frowned  slightly,  and  went  on.  'Yes,  Jeff, 
I'm  going  to  die  and  go  to  hell,  because  I  deserve  to  go 
there.  I  deserve  to  go  there,  Jeff,  because  I  have  sinned. 
Yes,  Jeff,  I've  committed  an  awful  sin,  and  it's  no  more 
than  my  due  to  burn  in  hell  in  payment.  I  never  believed 
much  in  such  a  place  until  not  long  ago,  when  I  brought 
that  girl  to  Cincinnati.'  He  breathed  deeply  and  with 
some  effort,  and  it  was  then  I  could  see  he  wore  a  strange 
expression,  and  now,  as  I  look  back  at  it,  I  guess  that 
meant  death.  He  went  on  again,  after  a  breathing  spell: 

'"Bring  me  that  box  over  there  Jeff,  that  one  with  the 
key  in  the  lock.  I  want  to  leave  that  one  whom  I  have 
wronged  something  before  I'm  done  for.'  I  brought  it 
to  him,  and  he  unlocked  it,  and  took  therefrom  a  lot  of 
papers,  and  a  certified  check  for  twenty-five  thousand 
dollars,  all  made  out,  and  to  be  turned  over  to  her  through 
due  recognition,  as  attested  by  his  lawyers  in  Cincinnati. 
'Hadn't  I  better  wire  for  your  family?'  I  inquired  of 
him;  but  he  waived  it  aside,  and  said  he  didn't  want 
them  to  know  until  it  was  over. 

"Now,  Jeff,'  he  went  on,  'you  are  to  take  this  envelope 
to  my  attorney  and  see  that  you  get  their  receipt  of  it, 
after  which,  when  you  get  back  to  Cincinnati,  you  take 
this  box  as  it  is  to  her.  I  trust  you,  Jeff,  and  believe 
that  you  will  attend  to  it.  And,  too,  I've  left  you  well 
cared  for;  but  that  is  in  the  will,  in  due  form.  And  now, 
if  you'll  just  give  me  a  drink  of  water,  I'll  tell  you  the 
story. 

"'My  company  had  their  southern  office  in  Attalia, 
and  we  had  quite  a  bit  of  business  with  the  financial 
department  of  one  of  the  big  denominations  of  Negro 
churches.  And  that  was  how  we  came  to  become  in 
volved  in  this  deal.  The  financial  secretary  of  the  church 
very  often  gave  us  his  note  in  payment,  and  soon  became 
well  known  to  me,  and  I  liked  him.  Pretty  soon,  however, 
it  came  to  me  that  he  aspired  to  be  a  bishop;  although 
the  office  he  held  was  a  good  graft,  and  we  knew  it, 
altho'  the  niggers  didn't.  But  he  became  crazy  to  be  a 
bishop  and  a  real  big  Negro,  proper. 


486  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"  'About  this  time,  it  came  to  my  attention  that  some 
thing  crooked,  something  underhanded  was  going  on  in 
the  affairs  of  the  church.  Well,  one  of  the  boys  who 
worked  as  porter,  was  reading  a  Negro  paper  one  day, 
and  I  observed  that  this  financial  secretary's  picture 
covered  the  whole  front  page.  I  took  the  paper,  and  when 
I  had  read  all  the  stuff  he  had  written  under  another's 
name,  I  began  to  figure  what  it  was  costing  him  to  be 
come  a  bishop.  Other  extravagances  came  under  my 
observation,  and,  since  the  business  we  had  with  them 
was  becoming  involved,  I  began  an  investigation  regard 
ing  the  preacher.  It  developed  that  he  had  been  married 
twice — that  is,  the  present  wife  was  his  second.  The 
first  one  had  died  and  left  him  two  daughters.  My  in 
vestigation,  which  came  through  a  Negro  detective  by 
the  name  of  Dejoie,  although  he  was  known  during  the 
investigation  as  Edwards,  developed  that  he  was  a 
despot.  His  youngest  daughter  by  his  first  wife  realized 
this,  and  she  threw  it  into  his  face,  and  left  when  she 
was  thirteen,  going  to  a  place  in  Michigan  where  she 
educated  herself.  The  other  was  a  girl  with  much  sense, 
but  somewhat  subservient  to  the  old  man,  regardless  of 
the  fact  that  she  possessed  a  mind  of  her  own.  Apparently 
it  had  been  the  old  man's  practice  to  have  them  regard 
him  as  the  great  I  am.  She  stayed  with  her  father,  who 
lived  with  his  second  wife,  and  to  that  union  were  born 
several  children,  I  don't  know  how  many. 

' '  Edwards  uncovered  all  this  and  some  more.  He  re 
vealed  the  fact  that  this  preacher,  who  was  so  anxious  to 
become  a  bishop,  was  not  only  seeking  it  by  extravagant 
methods,  but  had  employed  the  church's  funds  to  the 
amount  of  more  than  five  thousand  dollars.  And  still, 
all  those  pig  headed  niggers  knew  nothing  of  it.  It's  a 
great  wonder  they  have  anything,  they  seem  to  know  so 
little.  My  company  was  up  against  it  for  what  was  due 
us;  but  that  was  not  the  end  of  it.  On  top  of  this,  what 
did  that  sinner  do  but  write  my  name  on  a  note  for 
five  thousand  dollars,  and,  through  his  standing  with  the 
bank,  got  the  money  and  covered  the  shortage  before 
those  niggers  ever  knew  there  was  any!  Wasn't  that  the 


VELLUN  PARISH  487 

limit?  He  was  elected  bishop,  and  became  the  big  nigger 
his  great  ambition  had  aspired  to. 

"I  was  too  put  out  to  do  anything  at  once,  although 
the  note  came  due  before  I  was  aware  it  had  been  given. 

11  'The  night  I  discovered  it,  was  one  when  I  happened  to 
be  in  my  office  alone.  I  decided  forthwith  to  place  it  in 
the  hands  of  the  law.  It  was  then  that  this  daughter 
came  to  the  office  with  a  note  from  him,  asking  for  an 
appointment.  I  have  an  idea  he  was  only  then  aware 
that  the  note  was  due  or  past  due.  She  caught  me  as 
mad  as  a  hornet,  and  I  told  her  the  whole  thing.  I  shall 
not  soon  forget  the  expression  on  her  face  when  I  had 
told  her.  She  looked  like  she  would  die  right  there.  It 
was  then,  too,  I  saw  how  beautiful  she  was  and  so  well 
formed.  Suddenly  a  proposal  entered  my  head.  I  have 
always  been  impulsive,  but  I  have  never  been  known  to 
back  up.  So  I  got  up  and  stood  before  her,  and  said  my 
say.  She  was  terribly  indignant  and  would  have  fled, 
but  I  stood  between  her  and  the  door.  I  became  mad  to 
have  that  girl.  She  fought  me,  but  I  grew  worse.  I  fin 
ally  said  to  her:  "Come  with  me  to  Cincinnati,  and  save 
your  rotten,  sinning  preacher  father  from  the  chain  gang. 
A  home  it  is  up  there  with  plenty  of  everything,  or  fifteen 
years  for  your  now  bishop  father  on  the  worst  chain  gang 
in  the  world."  She  regarded  me  wildly,  as  the  substance 
of  it  became  clear  to  her.  "Oh,  I  mean  it,"  I  cried.  "  I'm 
going  to  send  that  dad  of  yours  to  the  chain  gang  tomorrow 
— and  you  know  what  that  means/'  I  think  all  the  horror 
of  it  rose  before  her  in  that  moment.  All  the  Negroes, 
spiteful,  envious  creatures  crying:  "Aw,  you're  a  big 
nigger,  huh.  Your  daddy's  a  bishop!"  And  the  next  day: 
"Urn-urn!  What  do  you  think  of  it!  A  big  bishop  done 
fo'ged  a  note!"  And  she  had  seen  the  chain  gang.  All 
those  stripes  and  chains  frightened  her.  She  looked  up 
at  me  with  an  appeal  in  her  eyes  that  frightened  me— 
even  then;  but  I  was  too  wild  to  have  her  at  that  moment, 
to  give  heed.  And  then  she  begged  me  to  have  mercy. 
She  cried  and  beseeched — she  did  everything,  and  then— 
in  the  end — well,  I'll  not  soon  forget  those  appeals.  "I'm 
a  nice  girl.  Can  you  not  appreciate  what  that  means? 


488  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

I  will — to  save  my  father  and  those  little  ones;  but  be 
fore  God:  Hear  him,  please,  see  him.  I  may  be  yours 
in  body,  but  never  in  soul;  while — oh,  can't  you  see 
what  you  ask?  Can  you  not  see  that  you  take  everything 
I  have  lived  for?  Don't  you  see,  that  when  you  rob  a 
woman  of  her  purity  you  have  destroyed  her  womanhood?" 
She  fell  on  her  face  and  sobbed  until,  as  I  see  it  now,  I 
can't  imagine  how  I  could  have  acted  so. 

'"And  that  is  why,  Jeff,  I'm  going  to  hell.  Yes, 
to  hell!'  He  was  going  now,  his  eyes  had  a  far  away, 
an  unearthly  expression;  but  before  he  was  gone,  he 
said — and  his  voice  seemed  to  come  from  another  world 
as  I  held  him.  'I'm  going,  Jeff,  I'm  going.  Satan's 
waiting  for  me.  And,  say,  Jeff,'  his  voice  now  came  in 
gasps,  and  sounded  as  if  from  eternity:  'I  don't  mind  it 
so  much,  no  I  don't,  Jeff;  but  the  only  thing,  and  the 
last  request  of  God,  is  to  be  sure  to  send  that  old  preacher 
down  to  meet  me  sometime.'  With  that  his  muscles 
relaxed,  a  spasm  contracted  his  form,  and  he  lay  dead." 

The  two  were  silent  now.  Outside  a  bird  hopped  about, 
and  finally  lit  on  the  window  sill,  peering  in  as  if  to  inquire 
the  cause  of  the  silence.  After  a  long  time,  it  seemed, 
Wyeth  spoke. 

''Strange.    And  did — you — ah — fulfill  the  request?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  other  slowly.  "I  did  at  once,  and  let 
me  tell  you,  my  friend,  I  will  never  forget  that  girl's 
face.  Oh,  I've  seen  many;  but  this  girl's  face  told  the 
story,  and  her  story  was  that  of  a  pure  girl,  a  good  girl, 
who  had  made  a  sublime  sacrifice.  Was  that  sacrifice 
worth  the  cost?"  Again  silence  reigned  supreme,  each 
with  his  thoughts. 

The  birds  outside  made  sweet  music,  as  they  flitted 
happily  about.  Sidney  Wyeth  was  speaking  again,  and 
his  voice  was  from  a  distance,  as  he  said  quietly: 

"What  became  of  her?" 

"What  became  of  her?  Oh  yes,"  cried  the  other, 
sitting  up  and  shaking  off  his  distraction,  as  though  he 
had  been  awakened  from  sleep.  "Why,  she  left  soon 
after.  Came  south,  and  when  I  was  on  the  way  down 
here,  I  chanced  to  stop  over  in  a  town — I  won't  mention 


VELLUN  PARISH  489 

the  name — because  she  was  there.  Was  selling  a  book, 
so  I  understood,  but  was  staying  with  the  pastor  of  the 
Presbyterian  church,  and  high  in  their  favor.  I  was  glad 
to  see  it  and  never  let  on;  but  there  was  a  skunk  aboard 
the  same  train  from  Cincinnati,  and  who  stayed  there. 
I've  often  thought  about  it  since,  and  I  hope  that  devil 
never  knew  her  and  made  trouble.  She  was  a  good  girl, 
and  still  may  be  saved  if  things  go  along  right." 

"Life  is  full  of  mysteries,"   Wyeth  commented. 

"Sure  is,"  his  companion  replied,  and  then  became 
dreary,  as  his  mind  wandered  sadly,  solemnly,  back  into 
the  past.  Suddenly  he  sat  bolt  upright,  saying:  "I  trust 
you,  and  for  that  reason,  since  I  have  told  it  to  you,  I 
have  a  small  picture  that  I  found  in  the  old  man's  effects, 
and  considered  it  good  policy  to  remove.  So  I  have 
kept  it,  and  I'm  going  to  show  it  to  you. " 

While  the  other  fished  away  in  an  old  trunk,  a  strange 
thought  came  to  Sidney  Wyeth,  and  he  recalled  singu 
larly,  the  effort  for  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  in  that  town  up  the 
river,  and  how  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  from  a 
source  that  no  one  could  explain,  was  paid  at  almost 
the  last  minute.  ...  He  was  doing  some  thinking 
and  had  forgotten  all  about  the  other,  who  had  closed 
the  trunk  now,  and  came  before  him  with  a  small  picture. 
He  sat  up  quickly  when  the  other  touched  him,  and  held 
before  his  gaze  the  picture  of  Mildred  Latham. 

And  in  that  moment  there  came  a  vision  of  a  dark, 
dreary  night,  when  he  hurried  through  the  streets  of 
Cincinnati,  and  came  to  a  place  where  an  old  woman  sat, 
an  evil  hag;  and  who  regarded  him  with  malicious  eyes — 
eyes  that  appeared  to  hate  everyone — and  the  words  in 
reply  to  his  request,  came  back  with  a  shock:  "Gwan! 
She's  with  her  man!" 

Sidney  continued  to  gaze  at  the  picture.  There  was 
profound  silence,  for  neither  spoke.  One  was  not  in  the 
mood  to  do  so,  the  other  could  not.  He  raised  his  hand 
mechanically  to  his  head,  as  though  to  rid  his  mind  of 
some  obstruction.  He  tried  to  think  coherently,  but  his 
senses  were  confused. 

He  turned,  staggered  slightly,  groping  as  if  blindly,  for 


490  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

support,  -and  passed  on  out  into  the  open,  and  under 
God's  pure  heavens — anywhere  away  from  the  stifling 
air  inside,  and  its  hideous  secret. 

Sidney  stood  outside  now,  and  the  spring  sun  beat  upon 
his  bare  head,  as,  with  his  trembling  hand  he  shaded  his 
eyes,  and  looked  in  the  direction  of  the  creole  city. 
Back  there  he  would  go — he  had  to  go!  He  couldn't 
say  why — feel  why — now.  For,  in  the  tangle  of  his  con 
fused  thoughts,  nothing  seemed  clear.  But,  he  would 
go  back.  His  hand  sought  his  forehead  again.  Yes,  he 
would  go  back. 

Let  us  go  back  to  a  night  when  the  heroine  of  our 
story  got  up  from  a  drunken  stupor,  to  find  that  the  hour 
of  fate — fate  for  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  was  at  hand.  She  had 
rushed  breathlessly  to  the  office  of  the  Western  Union, 
and  had  secured  the  money  that  had  been  transferred, 
at  her  request,  from  the  Cincinnati  bank  some  days 
before.  She  had  known  when  Wilson  Jacobs  returned 
unsuccessful  in  his  attempt,  that  some  expedient  was 
necessary. 

When  she  realized  a  year  before,  that  she  was  heiress 
to  such  a  sum  of  money,  she  had  worried  as  to  what  she 
would  do  with  it.  Her  conscience  would  never  let  her 
touch  a  penny  of  it  for  personal  use.  It  had  been  left 
on  deposit,  and,  insofar  as  her  daily  life  had  been  con 
cerned,  she  had  about  forgotten  it,  until  the  climax  of 
Wilson  Jacobs'  great  effort  had  stood  like  a  spectre 
before  her. 

For  a  time  she  had  hesitated,  feeling  that  such  money 
should  not  be  used  for  Christian  purposes.  .  .  .  But, 
when  she  had  awakened  on  that  dreadful  night,  she 
came  at  once  to  appreciate  how,  through  her  and  her 
alone,  this  effort  should  be  realized. 

So,  she  rushed  pell  mell  through  the  streets  that  led  to 
Wilson  Jacobs'  home.  As  she  hurried  along,  visions  of 
the  great  need  passed  fitfully  through  her  mind.  She 
recalled  all  the  crime  she  had  witnessed;  thousands 
yearly  herded  on  the  gangs,  torn  mothers,  prostituted 
sisters,  homes  broken  up  by  that  demon  of  liquor.  She 


VELLUN  PARISH  491 

could  see  the  condition  which  forced  so  many  of  her 
people  to  the  belief  that  colored  people  could  never  be 
anything,  regardless  as  to  how  much  they  might  try. 

Race  prejudice,  that  demon  of  American  society,  had 
succeeded  in  convincing  so  many  of  these  weak  people 
that  there  was  no  future;  that  the  only  resort  was  to  get 
all  the  excitement  out  of  life  that  was  possible.  How 
they  conducted  themselves  to  secure  such  a  life,  was  the 
one  great  detriment  to  the  race,  to  the  city,  to  the 
state,  and  in  the  end,  to  the  United  States. 

As  she  rushed  along,  she  could  hear  these  poor  creatures, 
and  the  words  they  uttered,  when  approached  with  offers 
for  their  salvation;  for,  in  addition  to  the  discourage 
ment  caused  by  race  prejudice,  there  was  another  feature 
that  was  worse  still — class  prejudice.  The  folly  of  it. 
The  effect  was  more  damnable,  she  knew,  than  all  the 
other  causes,  for,  through  it  these  poor  creatures  were 
made  to  feel  that  they  were  actually  bad;  bad  beyond 
redemption,  which  made  them  unfit  for  the  civilized 
world.  Under  this  they  fretted.  They  grew  likewise  to 
hate,  and  in  the  end,  to  become  not  only  a  disgrace  to 
the  race,  community  and  state,  but  even  enemies  to 
society. 

She  recalled  once  a  man,  a  mulatto  and  obviously  a 
pervert,  who  answered  a  street  preacher.  She  could  never 
seem  to  forget  his  words. 

"You  say/'  he  had  said,  "that  I  should  get  religion. 
and  I  say,  what's  the  use?  I'm  a  nigger,  and  that  means 
I'm -a  vagabond,  a  cast-off,  a  thing  to  be  hated,  con 
demned  and  persecuted.  You  speak  of  brotherly  love 
and  the  reward  hereafter.  I  laugh  when  you  make  such 
assertions.  Heaven  for  a  Negro?  Why,  do  you  suppose 
that  even  Satan  would  care  for  him?  As  to  brotherly 
love,  why  don't  you  go  to  the  white  man  that  keeps  my 
sister?  Why  don't  you  tell  that  man  what  you  preach 
about?  I  am  illegitimate.  My  youngest  sister,  the  white 
man's  mistress,  is  too,  and  so  are  all  the  rest!  Then  you 
speak  of  heaven  and  reward  in  the  hereafter  for  Negroes. 
The  hereafter  is  the  chain  gang,  where  my  illegitimate 
brother  is  serving  twenty  years  for  murder.  As  for  me, 


492  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

I'm  going  to  a  blind  tiger  and  get  a  drink.  I'm  going  to 
get  drunk.  The  idea  that  a  Negro  can  be  anything  is  a 
joke.  There  may  be  a  heaven  for  white  people,  but  for 
a  Negro,  oh,  you  fool!" 

As  all  this  and  other  instances  passed  through  her 
mind,  Mildred  became  much  excited.  Then,  as  the 
reality  dawned  upon  her,  a  picture  of  what  that  money 
could  do  became  clear  to  her,  and  with  Wilson  Jacobs 
as  its  secretary,  she  presently  came  to  feel  that  her 
sacrifice  might  be  a  blessing  in  disguise. 

On  and  on  she  hurried,  until  at  last  she  came  to  the 
house.  She  paused  at  the  gate,  and  caught  her  breath. 
Her  thoughts  were  busy  for  a  moment,  as  she  tried  to 
formulate  a  plan  to  deliver  the  money  without  being 
caught.  She  struggled  nervously,  with  first  one  plan  and 
then  another,  and  then  at  last  she  boldly  entered  the 
gate  and  walked  up  to  the  front  door.  As  she  reached 
to  push  the  bell,  she  looked  through  the  glass  door. 
Wilson  sat  nodding  in  the  study.  His  position,  she  saw, 
was  such  that  he  could  see  the  clock,  and  watch  the 
fatal  moments  pass.  It  was  then  past  eleven.  She  could 
see  the  clock  and  realized  what  those  moments  meant. 
He  had,  as  she  observed  him,  fallen  asleep  from  sheer 
fatigue.  As  she  watched  him,  there  came  to  her  mind  a 
bold  idea,  and  she  put  it  into  effect  at  once.  She  tried 
the  door,  fearing  it  might  be  locked,  but  was  relieved 
when  it  opened  with  a  turn  of  the  knob. 

She  entered  the  house  on  tip-toe,  passed  through  the 
hall  to  the  study,  which  was  to  one  side,  entered  the 
room  in  which  he  sat,  and,  with  breath  held,  nerves 
tense,  she  cautiously  crossed  to  where  he  sat.  She 
slowly  drew  her  breath,  when  she  saw  he  was  sleeping 
peacefully.  She  placed  the  package  containing  the  price 
of  her  virtue  upon  the  table.  She  looked  at  him  again, 
and  caught  her  breath  in  fear,  as  he  moved  slightly,  but 
did  not  fully  awaken. 

The  next  moment  she  stole  her  way  to  the  door,  like  a 
thief  in  the  night,  and  was  outside.  She  turned,  as  she 
heard  a  sound,  and  saw  Constance,  weary,  tired,  and 
apparently  nervally  exhausted,  come  from  the  rear  and 


VELLUN  PARISH  493 

enter  the  study.  She  dared  stand  and  watch  her,  as  she 
entered  the  study  where  her  brother  sat,  now  fully 
awake,  but  oblivious  to  the  presence  of  the  package.  He 
was  watching  the  clock  that  was  ticking  away. 

With  a  catch  of  her  breath,  she  saw  that  Constance 
had  discovered  the  package,  and  she  saw  them  open  it 
with  curiosity.  She  noted  the  look  of  intense  joy,  as 
their  eyes  beheld  the  contents. 

As  she  was  leaving,  these  words  floated  out  to  her  in 
the  stillness  of  night,  "Go,  brother,  in  God's  name,  go!" 

No  one,  so  far  as  we  know,  guessed  where  the  much 
needed  money  came  from.  But,  strangely  enough,  the 
giving  had  relieved  the  giver.  After  she  left  the  Jacobs' 
home,  she  felt  as  she  had  never  felt  before,  and  took 
life  and  what  it  brought  very  calmly.  As  she  passed 
along,  she  looked  with  silent  relief  into  the  faces  of 
those  of  her  race,  who  were  persecuted  on  one  hand  by 
fear  of  the  superior  white,  and,  on  the  other,  by  cast. 
At  times  she  had  regarded  them  as  so  many  dogs,  lurking, 
hungry  dogs,  who  wait  until  darkness  sets  in,  before 
lurking  in  the  alleys  and  searching  garbage  cans,  expect 
ing  to  be  kicked  or  be  killed  upon  discovery,  if,  for  no 
other  reason,  simply  to  give  vent  to  a  hatred.  They 
felt,  as  she  saw  it,  that  it  was  the  lot  of  the  Negro 
to  be  hated.  They  got  no  kindness;  they  expected  none; 
they  even  scoffed  when  it  was  offered,  regarding  it  as 
some  subtle  means  of  inviting  them  to  a  worse  fate,  and 
this  was  what  discrimination  and  prejudice  had  brought 
them  to. 

There  still  remained  the  dispensation.  No  person  in 
all  the  world,  she  felt,  was  so  fitted  for  the  task  as  Wilson 
Jacobs.  Care  of  the  building,  after  its  completion, 
would  itself  be  a  problem.  Then  there  was  that  distrust 
to  dispell.  Too  often,  she  knew,  that  arrogance  on  the 
part  of  the  leaders  of  these  institutions,  had  a  tendency 
to  keep  away  from  their  doors  the  very  class  whom  they 
sought  to  attract.  Unfortunately,  the  Negroes  them 
selves  realized  that  those  conditions  were  true. 

Wilson  Jacobs  was  not  such  a  character.  She  felt 
relieved  as  she  realized  this.  When  she  thought  again  of 


494  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

her  people,  she  appreciated  what  in  time  this  genuine 
Christianity  of  his  would  mean  to  them,  when  they  came 
to  know  him  for  the  kind  man  he  was.  Her  race  was 
emotional,  superstitious,  but  withal,  patriotic  and  en 
thusiastic.  Nothing,  regardless  of  all  she  had  seen,  could 
make  her  think  otherwise.  And  what  could  be  the 
attitude  of  her  race,  her  brothers,  when  they  realized  the 
efforts  made  in  their  behalf?  Will  they  say: 

"You  want  to  help  me?  You  really  want  to  be  a 
brother,  and  take  me  into  that  place  and  help  me  to 
lead  a  good,  clean  life?  And  I  doubted  you!  I  scorned 
your  offer  and  cursed  you  and  all  society.  Oh,  merciful 
God,  but  I  knew  not  what  I  did!  And  you  say,  that 
I  am  not  bad,  that  I  never  was  bad?  That  I  was  merely 
weak — weak  as  other  human  beings  were?  Can  all  this 
be  true?  I  can  hardly  realize  it.  I  have  never  known 
kindness.  I  have  always  been  told  that  life  held  no 
future  for  me,  a  Negro;  that  by  the  will  of  our  Creator, 
I  was  born  to  be  hated,  hunted  and  abused,  a  creature  of 
no  destiny,  a  thing  to  be  spat  upon  and  made  a  slave 
of,  a  creature  without  morals.  You  say  that  all  this  was 
wrong,  and  that  I  can  be  not  only  a  good  person,  but  an 
example  for  the  good  of  others?  That  I  am,  after  all, 
only  the  victim  of  circumstances?" 

Wilson  Jacobs  would  convince  them,  and,  when  this 
was  done,  her  reward  would  come. 


CHAPTER    ELEVEN 

"Mildred,  I've  Come  Back" 

It  seemed  a  long  way  back  to  the  city,  as  though  he 
would  never  get  there,  and  the  train  crept  slowly  along 
through  the  mighty  swamps.  But  all  the  way,  his  mind 
was  busy.  Thought  after  thought  came  and  went,  but 
only  one  became  fixed.  "  I  love  her, "  he  cried,  again  and 
again.  " I  love  her!"  he  exclaimed  feverishly.  "Nothing 
else  matters — nothing  else  can  matter,  now!" 

He  was  going  to  her,  just  as  fast  as  the  slow  train  would 
carry  him,  and  when  he  arrived — beyond  those  conflict 
ing  moments,  he  got  no  further. 

He  lay  back  in  his  seat  after  a  spell,  and  calmed  himself 
to  a  degree  that  he  could  see  it  all  clearly.  He  wanted 
to  see  her  now;  he  wanted  to  look  deep  into  the  eyes 
that  he  was  sure  must  be  tired;  he  wanted  to  see  behind 
those  mirrors,  and  to  do  his  share  to  relieve  the  turmoil 
within.  After  a  time,  his  return  to  the  office  after  his 
illness,  recurred  to  him.  He  had  found  a  letter  from  the 
publisher,  and  upon  opening  it,  he  had  found  it  to  contain 
a  draft  for  a  large  sum  of  money.  He  didn't  know  then 
who  had  sold  the  book  with  so  much  success  to  him,  and 
he  had  wondered.  Strange,  but  it  had  not  occurred  to 
him  then,  that  it  was  she.  But  now,  it  was  all  clear— 
everything. 

"And  it  was  Mildred  all  the  while!"  he  exclaimed  in  a 
controlled  voice,  despite  the  excitement  it  gave  him. 
"How  could  I  have  misunderstood  so  long!"  And  then 
the  instance  of  the  five  thousand  dollars  came  back  to  him, 
and  the  sale  of  his  work  as  he  had  left  it.  True,  he  had 
given  this  all  over  to  her;  but  the  fact  to  be  reckoned 
with  was  that  she  had  succeeded  where  he  had  not.  .  .  . 

She  had  done  this  without  any  thought  of  herself 

No  girl  with  so  much  ability,  with  such  constructive 

495 


496  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

thoughts,  would  have  done  as  she  had  for  others,  unless 
inspired  by  some  divine  sacrifice. 

It  was  all  clear  to  him  now.  And  then  the  other.  .  .  . 
In  all  his  life,  virtue  in  women  had  been  his  highest 
regard.  During  the  months  he  spent  in  the  south,  he 
had  seen  immorality  of  a  nature  that  was  revolting  to 
his  finer  senses.  It  had  been  the  custom  since  the  land 
ing  of  Negroes  in  this  country,  and  was  in  evidence  every 
where,  in  the  many  colors  that  made  up  his  people;  but, 
in  spite  of  this,  his  high  regard  for  the  virtuous  woman 
remained  the  same.  So,  when  the  words  of  the  hag  came 
back  to  him,  amid  all  the  good  things  he  was  thinking  of 
her,  for  a  time,  all  was  swept  from  him  in  a  wave  of 
revolt.  .  .  .  How  could  he  be  blind  henceforth  to  that? 

He  became  weak  and  listless  for  a  time.  To  pass  on 
through  the  city;  to  catch  one  of  the  ocean  goers  that  he 
was  often  interested  in  observing  at  the  harbor,  and  go 
to  Argentina,  Brazil — anywhere  and  forget  it  all;  and 
then  there  came  to  him  the  thought  of  his  people.  All 
that  he  had  lived  through  when  he  saw  the  leaders  with 
their  selfishness,  the  neglect  of  their  Christian  duty; 
how  he  had  written  of  that  selfishness,  fearlessly  with 
jaws  set  and  soul  on  fire;  and  of  the  reign  of  excitement 
that  followed — it  was  impossible  to  further  contemplate 
other  plans. 

And,  amid  all  the  chaps,  there  came  to  him  thoughts  of 
the  success  of  the  Christian  forward  movement  in  the 
town  up  the  river.  With  success  there,  in  the  worst  of 
two  towns  in  the  world,  it  was  now  an  almost  foregone 
conclusion,  that  shortly,  the  spirit  would  prevail  success 
fully  in  other  towns.  Yes,  it  would  have  to.  The  public, 
for  its  own  welfare,  would  soon  come  to  appreciate  what 
such  a  movement  meant  to  two-fifths  of  its  population. 
And  how  came  this  to  be?  Would  the  people  of  that  town 
up  the  river,  now  have  a  beautiful  building  in  course  of 
construction,  if  it  had  been  left  to  them  to  supply  that 
fatal  twenty-five  thousand?  "Great  God!"  he  mur 
mured,  "how  can  I,  how  can  I!" 

And,  as  the  train  continued  on  its  way  over  innumerable 
trestles  with  lagoons  and  marshes  everywhere,  it  occurred 


"MILDRED,  I'VE  COME  BACK"  497 

to  him,  that  the  one  who  had  made  all  this  possible,  and 
who,  at  the  price  of  purity,  which  was  a  woman's  all, 
was  now,  and  for  the  sake  of  it,  homeless  and  friend 
less.  .  .  .  Even  that  family,  that  bishop  father,  sur 
rounded  by  thousands  of  hero  worshippers,  with  his 
picture  decorating  the  walls  of  thousands  of  homes,  and 
pointed  to  by  day,  would  scorn  her.  The  thousands  of 
young  men,  respectable,  but  poor,  and  who,  for  this 
girl's  sacrifice,  were  given  a  great  chance  to  conduct  their 
future  lives  along  Christian  lines,  even  they  would  scorn 
her.  All  decent  and  respecting  society  would  scorn  her. 
They  would  ham  to  scorn  her.  He  himself  had  already 
scorned  her. 

He  allowed  his  gaze  to  wander  beyond  the  waters  of 
a  lagoon;  until  it  rested  upon  a  clump  of  trees  that  rose 
ragged  in  the  background.  He  was  too  torn  with  anguish 
to  think  for  a  time.  What  price  had  been  put  upon 
virtue,  for  his  people — and  her  people — was  too  great  to 
estimate.  But  behind  it  all,  was  a  homeless,  friendless, 
loveless  little  girl,  drifting  about  in  the  world.  For 
Mildred  Latham  as  he  saw  her  again,  was  a  mere  girl, 
not  yet  twenty- two.  She  had  a  heart,  but  what  kind  of 
a  heart  must  she  have,  after  the  suffering  she  had  endured? 
Yet  she  was  a  human  being,  with  a  human  desire  after  all. 

What  he  had  seen  in  her  eyes  in  Cincinnati;  that  pain, 
and  at  times  that  wild,  elfmlike,  mad  desire.  .  .  .  And, 
oh,  that  caress,  that  one  kiss  that  seemed  to  have  pene 
trated  her  very  soul;  the  look  she  had  given  him;  that 
weak  protest,  afterward  united  in  its  pathetic  appeal  for 
mercy.  ...  She  had  been  his  dream;  his  mad  desire. 
He  had  declared  then,  that  he  would  help  to  dispell  that 
worry;  he  had  felt  himself  courageous  enough  to  do  so, 
too;  but  now  before  him  was  the  test,  and  he, was  weaken 
ing  under  it. 

Back  in  the  Rosebud  Country,  he  had  lived  alone  for 
years,  and  during  those  long  days,  his  greatest  desire, 
his  greatest  hope,  had  been  to  love,  to  have  that  love 
returned  by  his  ideal  of  womanhood.  He  dismissed  what 
had  followed.  The  other  had  not  even  courage  enough  to 
accept  graciously  what  he  had  worked  for.  Any  woman 

32 


498  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

can,  to  a  degree,  mould  the  future  of  her  husband.  No 
man,  he  knew,  could  be  oblivious  to  the  condition  of  his 
household,  and  that  which  made  it.  That  part  of  his 
life,  however,  had  long  since  been  a  closed  chapter.  His 
great  effort  had  been  to  forget  it,  and  he  had  succeeded 
to  such  a  degree,  that  he  was  able  to  concentrate  his 
mind  on  other  things;  but  now,  it  was  different.  Be 
cause,  with  the  exception  of  the  one  thing,  Mildred 
Latham  was  more  than  his  picture,  his  ideal.  But  that 
one  thing  was  the  silent  barrier. 

It  was  springtime  now,  and  back  in  the  Rosebud 
Country  all  must  be  busy.  He  thought  of  the  years,  and 
how  busy  he  was  at  this  time.  And  hopeful;  because, 
whether  the  season  proved  successful  or  not,  springtime, 
when  the  crops  were  planted,  was  always  a  hopeful  time; 
every  farmer  believed,  as  he  planted  his  seed,  that  the 
season  would  be  successful.  And  now  he  was  not  there  to 
plant  the  crops.  He  had  not  been  there  the  year  before; 
but,  as  he  continued  to  recall  the  past,  he  knew  that  it 
had  never  occurred  to  him  that  he  would  have  been  any 
where  else  but  there.  He  wanted  to  be  there;  but 
financially,  he  couldn't  afford  to  be  there  any  more. 

After  an  interminable  spell  of  mental  depression,  some 
thing  came  to  his  mmd.  It  entered  slowly,  but  at  last 
took  shape.  He  whispered  after  a  time:  "Yes,  yes,  I 
could.  With  that  amount  I  could  start  all  over  again.  .  . 
And  out  there,  no  one  would  know,  no  one  would  need  to 
know.  .  .  .  Just  being  there  with  the  right  to  continue 
as  I  once  was;  but  with  a  terrible  experience  to  remind 
me  of  what  it  is  all  worth — it  would  not  be  the  same  now. " 

He  saw  her  now  differently.  That  other  side  was  pas 
sing.  It  would  come  back — it  would  keep  coming  back; 
but  it  was  his  duty;  it  was  his  future — it  was  his  very 
-life  to  crush  it  as  often  as  it  came  up;  but  that  was  not 
the  half  of  it:  Mildred  Latham  was  homeless,  and 
friendless  as  we  know.  After  what  she  had  done  for  so 
many  others,  was  it  not  Christianlike  to  think  of  her?  .... 

And  now  he  had  another  thought.  Yes,  back  in  the 
Rosebud  Country  it  would  be  possible  for  two  people  to 
be  happy;  people  who  had  no  other  hope,  no  other 


"MILDRED,  I'VE  COME  BACK"  499 

ambition,  but  to  follow  the  pursuit  of  happiness  and 
labor 

As  it  became  clearer,  he  realized  that  he  had  never 
cared  for  conventionality.  That  other  experience  had 
thrust  it  upon  him,  and  when  he  showed  his  dislike  for  it, 
he  had  been  tortured.  It  would  be  different — now. 
Mildred  Latham  would  not  care  for  any  thing  but  him 
self,  and  that  which  would  make  him  happy.  .  .  .  And 
he,  his  experience  had  been  too  real  and  too  bitter,  not 
to  appreciate  what  kindness,  sincerity,  and  courage  in 
one's  convictions,  means  in  future  happiness. 

The  train  stood  in  the  station  now,  and  all  the  other 
passengers  had  left  the  cars.  He  came  out  of  his  revery 
with  a  start;  and,  hastily  collecting  his  luggage,  he 
rushed  forth,  and  caught  a  car  that  took  him  within  a 
block  of  his  office.  He  deposited  his  grips  in  a  cafe  he 
knew,  and,  a  few  minutes  later,  he  stood  in  the  doorway. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  nearly  everyone  in  the 
building  had  left  for  home;  but  she  was  there.  Curiously, 
he  had  felt  that  she  would  be  there.  With  the  amount 
of  business  he  had  seen  she  had  created,  he  was  certain 
that  he  would  find  her,  and  he  did. 

She  sat  at  the  desk,  as  she  had  the  afternoon  he  had 
returned  from  the  hospital.  She  was  working  away,  and 
he  saw  her  before  she  noticed  him.  When  she  did,  she 
gave  a  start,  opened  her  mouth,  and  then,  as  if  she 
thought  of  something,  closed  it  slowly,  fumbled  her  pen, 
but  said  nothing. 

He  paused  briefly  and  observed  her,  and  as  he  did  so, 
took  note  of  the  fact  that  she  had  lowered  her  head. 
And  he  knew.  It  was  in  shame.  Strangely  now,  since 
she  knew  that  he  was  aware  of  at  least  a  part  of  the  past, 
she  could  not  endure  to  have  him  look  at  her.  But,  in 
these  moments,  Sidney  Wyeth  was  not  observing  her  in 
scorn,  as  her  colored  cheeks  gave  evidence. 

Mildred  sat  still  and  waited.  She  expected  to  be 
scorned;  she  had  come  to  a  place  in  life,  where  she  ex 
pected  anything.  He  might  rebuke  her,  and  she  would 
say  nothing;  but  intuitively,  she  had  never  felt  he  would 
rebuke  her.  As  she  sat  with  drooped  head,  he  saw  one 


500  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

tear  drop  unchecked  upon  her  lap.  No  others  followed; 
but  he  knew  the  time  had  come  to  go  to  this  girl.  She 
had  endured  a  hard  lot.  Not  one  person  in  a  thousand, 
would  have  gone  through  what  she  had,  but  human 
endurance,  wrestling  with  all  life's  vicissitudes,  has  a 
limit.  How  much  it  cost,  that  one  tear,  he  could  not 
fully  estimate;  but,  if  he  knew  life,  if  some  one  didn't 
come  to  Mildred  Latham's  rescue  soon,  she  might  become 
anything.  Not  far  from  where  she  sat,  a  thousand  or 
more  women  were  burning  their  souls  in  hell.  And  all 
those  women  were  there — not  by  preference;  but  because 
they  were  simply  human  beings  and  weak. 

He  approached,  and  a  moment  later  stood  near  her, 
while  her  finger  toyed  with  the  pen.  She  had,  as  he 
noticed  now,  grown  stouter  since  he  knew  her  in  Cincin 
nati.  Her  hair  covered  her  head,  and  was  beautiful  to 
his  eyes,  while  her  skin  appeared  somewhat  darker.  He 
paused  as  one  at  a  loss  how  to  begin,  because  he  had  so 
much  he  then  wished  to  say.  Presently  he  found  his  voice, 
and  his  excitement  was  controlled  as  he  spoke  her  name: 

"Mildred,"  said  he.  She  heard  him,  but  did  not  reply. 
So  he  repeated:  "Mildred,  I've  come  back. "  He  paused 
again,  and  the  room  was  silent.  She  did  not  answer  him, 
and  he  did  not  expect  her  to.  Presently  he  said  it  over 
again.  "Yes,  I've  come  back.  ...  I  was  away.  I  was 
off  in  one  of  the  parishes,  one  of  the  most  remote,  for,  when 
I  left,  I  wanted  to  be  away,  away  from  everybody.  .  .  . 
But  it  happened  out  there,  that  I  met  a  man,  Mildred. 
I  met  a  man.  .  .  .  and  he  told  me  a  story,  a  long  story.  .  . 
What  he  told  me,  concerned  something — something  I  will 
not  tell,  and  somebody  I  will  not  mention,  but  what  he 
told  me,  cleared  the  horizon.  .  .  .  And  that's  why  I  came 
back.  On  the  way  I  faltered,  I  weakened  for  a  time.  I 
thought  once  of  not  stopping.  I  started  to  go  on  and  on 
and  on,  maybe  never  stop.  But  when  I  thought  again, 
and  again,  and  kept  on  thinking,  I  couldn't.  I  couldn't, 
because,  well,  after  all,  I  wanted  to  stop. 

"So  I  stopped,  Mildred,  and  then,  I  came  here.  Here 
— and  to  you.  ...  I  have  come  back,  Mildred,  and  to 
you.  Are  you  glad  I've  come  back,  Mildred?"  He 


"MILDRED,  I'VE  COME  BACK"  501 

paused  and  listened,  though  he  did  not  expect  her  to 
answer. 

She  remained  as  she  was,  and  silent. 

"On  the  way  back,  I  thought  of  you,  of  nothing  else, 
no  one  else  but  you.  My  thoughts  went  back  to  our 
acquaintance  in  Cincinnati,  and  the  day  we  danced  and 
I — I — kissed  you,  Mildred/'  He  paused  again,  and 
gazed  out  over  the  rows  of  buildings  below.  "And  then 
I  realized  what  has  been  wrong  with  me  every  since,  and 
all  my  life.  ...  It  was  because  I  have  been  hungry.  I 
have  been  starving  to  death  these  many  years  for  love, 

Mildred,  love  and  understanding I  am  still  hungry, 

and  thirsty;  but  at  last  a  hope  has  come  to  me.  A  hope 
that  it  will  not  long  continue  as  it  has  these  many  years. 
But  withal,  I  have  thought  of  something  else  too.  And 
that  is,  I  want  to  go  home.  I  want  to  go  home  to  stay. 
I  don't  like  it  here;  I  don't  like  it  anywhere,  but  in  the 
Rosebud  Country." 

"The  Rosebud  Country?"  she  echoed,  sitting  erect  and 
turning  slightly. 

"Yes,  Mildred,  The  Rosebud  Country."  He  paused 
again,  and  the  ticking  of  his  watch  was  quite  audible  to 
both.  "Yes,"  he  said  presently,  and  after  a  time,  in 
which  he  seemed  to  be  engaged  in  deep  thought,  he 
resumed,  "and  I  was  going  to  say  that  I  have  decided  to 
go  back."  He  moved  and  stood  beside  her.  The  sinking 
sun  now  played  a  last  evening  ray  across  her  face,  and  in 
turning  from  it,  she  happened  to  look  up  and  into  his 
face.  He  saw  her  now  as  he  had  never  seen  her  before. 
Something  she  saw  caused  her  to  catch  her  breath  and 
venture  another  look.  His  eyes  appeared  to  see  something 
far  away,  and  she  continued  to  stare  at  him. 

"Yes,  Mildred,"  he  started  again,  and  now  his  voice 
became  low  and  strange.  She  understood,  and  knew  that 
he  was  living  in  the  past,  oblivious  to  her  presence. 
She  listened  with  a  strange  rapture.  "I've  decided  to 
go  back  to  that  land  beyond  the  Big  Muddy.  Back  to 
that  little  reservation,  the  name  of  which  I  love.  But 
Mildred,  it  depends."  He  halted  and  looked  down  into 
her  face.  Their  eyes  met  now,  and  both  seemed  hypno- 


502  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

tized  for  they  continued  to  stare  at  each  other,  becoming 
more  enraptured.  "It  depends/'  said  he,  very  slowly, 
"upon  you."  She  looked  away,  but  he  reached  and 
caught  her  hand.  He  backed  up  until  he  reached  the 
desk,  upon  which  he  seated  himself.  He  looked  at  her 
now  pleadingly.  She  gave  one  glance,  and  caught  the 
same  look  she  had  seen  but  once  before,  more  than  a 
year  before,  and  before  he  knew.  He  pulled  her  gently 
from  the  chair,  and  placed  her  beside  him  on  the  desk. 

"It  depends  upon  you  Mildred!"  And  still  she  said 
nothing. 

"  Out  there,  Mildred,  I  longed  for  you.  Yes,  it  was  you, 
you!  These  many  years  I  waited  for  you.  At  last  I 
have  found  you.  Oh,  I  have  found  you,  the  one  Woman. 
And  now,"  he  said  this  in  a  strong  voice,  "I'm  through. 
I'm  through,  and  ready  to  go  back,  if  you  will  go  with  me. 
Do  you  hear?  I  mean,  that  I  love  you  Mildred.  Love 
you  with  all  the  passion  of  a  hungry  heart. "  He  paused 
again. 

"And  you  have  had  a  hard  time,  little  girl,  oh  you've 
had  a  hard  time.  I  know.  But  it's  all  over  now,  dear. 
Yes,  it's  all  over  now.  There  is  no  society  that  we  are 
under  obligation  to;  there  are  no  pretentious  persons 
to  make  us  false  to  our  convictions;  there  is  nothing  but 
impulse  to  direct  us." 

"Oh,  Sidney,"  he  heard  her  say  with  a  slight  tremble. 
His  arm  stole  about  her  waist,  and  she  did  not  remove  it. 
She  looked  up  into  his  eyes  and  saw  him  with  trust. 
"And  you'll  go?"  he  said  and  waited. 

"  Do  you  mean  it  Sidney?  Oh,  Sidney,  do  you  mean  it? 
Her  voice  now  was  low,  strained,  strangely  wistful,  and 
then,  as  if  suddenly  remembering  something  she  had 
apparently  forgotten,  her  eyes  took  on  an  expression  of 
mute  appeal,  like  that  of  a  hunted  animal.  Her  form 
became  tense,  while  a  spasm  of  agony  contracted  her 
features  as  she  moaned: 

"No,  No,  No  I  can  not.  Oh,  I  will  not!  And 
before  he  could  quite  understand  her  sudden  rebellion, 
she  rushed  from  the  room  and  into  the  hall,  and  soon 
her  rapid  footsteps  died  away  in  the  distance. 


"MILDRED,  FVE  COME  BACK"  503 

He  stood  as  she  had  left  him,  not  comprehending  that 
she  had  gone.  "Am  I  awake?"  he  whispered  dreamily 
putting  his  hands  together,  and  gazing  at  them  stupidly, 
as  if  to  assure  himself  they  were  his  own,  "She  has  gone? 
Gone,  gone!  Mildred — but — why?"  He  felt  sadly  weak, 
for  the  strain  was  beginning  to  tell  upon  him. 

In  a  half  stupor,  he  finally  found  a  seat  in  the  office 
chair,  and  mechanically  let  his  gaze  wander  out  over  the 
city.  After  a  time,  it  rested  upon  a  street  that  led  down 
to  the  wide  thoroughfare.  His  eye  soon  caught  sight  of 
a  figure  hurrying  along  the  walk.  He  leaned  forward  and 
observed  it  carefully,  and  when  it  reached  another  street, 
he  made  out  that  it  was  Mildred.  He  watched  her  as 
she  crossed  quickly  to  the  center  where  a  car  was  moving, 
and  boarded  it.  In  a  moment  it  had  disappeared  down 
the  street. 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

The  Slave  Market 

Days  passed  and  still  he  waited,  still  he  watched,  and 
still  he  listened,  but  in  vain.  And  always  he  moved 
about  distractedly.  He  had  no  plans,  he  had  no  hopes 
now,  but  was  simply  moving  in  a  circle.  At  times  he 
would  utter  stupidly,  "  Where  is  she?  Where  is  Mildred?  " 
And  after  that  he  would  become  silent;  he  would  be 
thinking — yes,  always  thinking. 

He  ransacked  the  office;  he  made  inquiries  to  ascer 
tain  where  she  stayed — but  in  vain.  He  knew  not  how 
to  look  for  her;  he  knew  not  where  to  begin.  But  the 
work  in  the  office — the  result  of  her  ability — continued  to 
increase.  Mail  was  brought  four  times  a  day,  and  in 
each,  letters  from  far  and  near  would  contain  money 
orders,  express  checks,  cheerful  letters,  and  still  orders 
for  more  books.  But  they  gave  him  no  cheer,  notwith 
standing  he  mechanically  went  about  the  work,  with  the 
system  he  saw  she  had  created. 

And  as  the  days  went  by,  he  grew  more  anxious,  more 
worried  in  regard  to  her  fate,  and  he  grew  determined  to 
find  her,  if  he  could. 

"Poor  little  girl.  Poor  little  Mildred.  Why  has  she 
done  all  this?  And  she  is  alone  somewhere — always 
alone — and  I  know  not  where." 

There  came  a  day  when  he  felt  he  could  stand  it  no 
longer. 

He  took  a  walk;  he  knew  not  where  it  led  to.  Possibly 
it  led  nowhere.  Yet  he  felt  he  must  walk,  not  in  the 
direction  he  was  accustomed  to  go  (to  the  river,  where 
he  had  wandered  many  a  night,  and  observed  the  mighty 
ocean  liners,  receiving  and  discharging  their  cargoes;  or 
where,  on  the  deck  of  packets,  he  listened  to  steam 
calliopes),  but  in  a  direction  he  had  never  gone  before. 

504 


THE  SLAVE  MARKET  505 

It  was  in  one  of  the  creole  city's  narrow  ways,  where 
he  presently  found  himself.  Sidney  strolled  along,  ob 
livious  to  all  whereabouts,  and  found  that  this  part  of 
the  city  was  much  unlike  any  part  he  had  known. 

He  felt  as  one  in  a  strange  land,  to  be  sure.  On  all 
sides  he  was  greeted  by  little  low  houses,  opening  into 
the  narrow  streets.  Peculiar  people  moved  about  and 
spoke  in  a  tongue  he  could  not  understand,  but  he  knew 
it  was  creole.  They  were  quieter  than  those  in  the 
neighborhood  he  lived,  and  he  understood.  They  were 
all  Catholics,  he  had  been  told,  and  "obeyed"  the  priest. 
He  was  glad  of  it.  He  wished  all  his  race  would  obey 
something  other  than  their  animal  instincts. 

He  paused  at  last  before  a  statue  in  a  small  square. 
Four  rows  of  buildings  faced  it  on  that  many  sides. 
Only  one  side  confronted  him,  however,  and  to  this  he 
finally  went.  He  stopped  before  a  large  church,  a  cathe 
dral,  and  read  that  it  had  been  built  almost  two  hundred 
years  before.  -  Next  to  the  church,  was  the  museum. 
Curious,  and  for  a  time  forgetting  his  troubles,  he  wan 
dered  in.  He  went  up  a  winding  stairway  to  the  second 
floor.  As  he  passed  upward,  great  oil  paintings  greeted 
him.  All  old,  this  he  saw;  for,  under  many  were  in 
scriptions,  showing  that  many  had  been  painted  more 
than  a  hundred  years  ago.  While  he  had  never  studied 
this  art,  he  readily  appreciated  that  many  were  wonder 
ful.  Elegant  ladies  gazed  at  him  from  the  frames,  their 
eyes  following  him  strangely  out  of  sight;  for,  no  matter 
where  he  stood,  whether  in  front  or  from  either  side, 
they  seemed  to  scrutinize  him. 

He  passed  into  the  museum  and  began  to  examine, 
through  the  glass  cases,  relics  of  another  day.  That  the 
city  was  old  was  shown  by  the  age  of  papers  and  docu 
ments  of  numerous  mention.  Pictures  of  fond  old 
mammies,  gray  and  white-haired  old  uncles,  grand 
dames  (such  as  Dixie  had  seen),  caught  his  attention 
everywhere. 

An  old,  old  man,  scion  of  a  decayed  aristocracy,  sat  in 
a  chair  within  this  art  room,  and  Sidney  approached  him. 
"Have  you,"  said  he,  "any  record  of  the  sale  of  slaves, 


506  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

in  this  museum?"  The  other  pointed  to  a  room  Wyeth 
had  not  observed,  but  spoke  no  word. 

Wyeth  wandered  into  it,  and  his  gaze  immediately 
encountered  what  he  was  curious  to  see. 

"Know  all  men  by  these  presents: 

Being  the  last  will  and  testament  of  Joan  Becuare. 

"To  my  wife  and  life  companion,  I  do  bequeath  to  thee, 
all  I  have  after  death.  To-wit: 

"One  thousand  acres  of  land  in  Caddo  Parish,  un 
encumbered. 

"One  hundred  niggers,  of  various  ages  and  the 
following  description: 

"One  mammy,  age  eighty.  A  better  wench  never 
lived.  Name:  Diana. 

"One  'uncle',  eighty-seven,  beloved  servant  of  his 
master,  and  faithful  ever.  Name:  Joe. 

"One  wench,  twenty-two,  robust,  healthy,  a  good 
servant  of  the  house.  Name:  Martha." 

And  so  on  the  description  ran,  which  seemed  strange 
and  unnecessary  in  a  will;  then  he  recalled  the  sentiment 
of  the  southerner. 

In  still  another  case,  he  read  a  sale  bill,  written  in 
long  hand  with  an  artistic  flourish: 

"Having  sold  my  plantation,  I  will  hereby  sell  to  the 
highest  bidder,  at  public  auction,  the  following  named 
property,  to-wit: 

"One  nigger  wench,  sixteen  years,  hail  and  hearty, 
promises  to  be  a  good  breeder,  and  is  now  with  child  by 
Ditto,  a  young  nigger,  strong  as  a  lion,  healthy  and  a 
good  worker.  Not  'sassy'. 

"One  nigger  wench,  twenty-three,  name,  Mandy. 
This  is  the  most  attractive  wench  in  Gretna  Parish. 
She  is  expecting  a  third  child  soon." 

Wyeth  wondered  why  the  father  was  not  mentioned. 
And  then  he  thought  of  something,  and  knew.  .  .  .  His 
own  father  was  the  son  of  a  master. 

He  read  other  such  documents,  and  then  observed 
that  almost  all  sales  were  recorded  to  be  held  at  the 
"slave"  market.  After  an  hour  or  more,  he  passed  out. 

He  went  up  a  street,     which  was  narrow — like  all 


THE  SLAVE  MARKET  507 

those  in  the  old  section  of  the  city,  and  walked 
on,  whither  he  had  no  idea.  Not  far  away,  he  could  see 
the  river  and  many  great  vessels  moving  up  and  down. 
Just  ahead  of  him,  appeared  an  odd,  long,  two-story 
building.  The  first  glance  revealed  that,  once  upon  a 
time,  it  had  been  a  grand  affair.  "Wonder  what  it  was?" 
he  muttered  idly. 

And  now  he  came  up  to  it,  and  paused  near  one  end. 
He  viewed  it  many  minutes  curiously  from  across  the 
street,  but  he  could  not  make  out  what  it  had  been. 
As  he  saw  it  now,  it  was  evident  that  it  had  been  empty 
for  many,  many  years. 

Presently,  he  crossed  to  where  a  door  greeted  him, 
only  to  find,  when  he  had  come  to  it,  that  it  was  bolted 
from  the  inside,  while  the  heavy  iron  knob  was  rusted 
until  it  was  hardly  recognizable.  He  glanced  up,  and, 
straining  his  eyes,  he  read  an  inscription  over  the  door: 

ST.  LOUIS— ROYAL  HOTEL 

SLAVE  MARKET 

"So  this  is  the  place/'  he  whispered,  observing  every 
thing  before  him  now  with  a  new  interest.  "Herein 
were  sold,  in  the  days  of  old,  hundreds — aye,  thousands 
of  my  people."  He  passed  to  the  street  upon  which  the 
hotel  faced  for  a  block,  and  walked  down  this,  observing 
the  decaying  structure  with  greater  curiosity.  The  entire 
building  was,  apparently,  empty.  A  porch,  supported 
by  massive  iron  pillars,  reached  over  the  walk,  the  entire 
length  of  the  building.  The  large  windows  of  the  second 
story  were  without  glass,  and  gaped  darkly,  seeming  to 
tell  a  story  which  he  would  like  to  have  known.  The 
lower  floor  had  evidently  been  given  over  to  business 
purposes,  judging  from  the  wide  windows  that  now 
were  boarded  over  with  two-inch  planks.  All  this  was 
decorated  with  stage  announcements. 

When  he  reached  the  other  end,  there  was  an  opening; 
the  door  was  to  one  side,  and,  more  curious  now  than 
ever,  he  paused,  and  gazed  into  the  dark  interior.  Soon 
he  passed  within.  The  place  seemed  almost  as  dark  as 


508  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

a  dungeon  at  first,  and  he  stood  for  a  minute,  until  he 
had  become  accustomed  to  it.  He  passed  into  the 
interior,  and  finally  came  into  a  room  that  was  perfectly 
round.  "An  arch  chamber,  or  what?"  he  conjectured. 
Out  of  the  gloom  a  block  arose.  Something  about  it 
attracted  him,  and  he  crossed  to  where  it  was  fitted  into 
the  wall.  At  one  side  he  now  read,  "Sheriff's  desk." 
On  the  other  side  he  read,  "Clerk."  And  now  he  looked 
at  the  block,  and  knew  that  it  was  on  this  his  people  had 
been  sold — at  auction.  He  closed  his  eyes  for  a  time, 
and  allowed  his  thoughts — his  imagination — to  go  back 
into  the  past,  when  rich  planters,  grand  ladies,  and 
harsh  overseers  once  held  sway.  And  before  him  rose  a 
picture. 

"Hear  me,"  the  auctioneer,  "I  now  offer  the  best 
nigger  that  ever  held  a  plow.  A  good,  strong  rascal, 
that  is  worth: — How  much  am  I  offered  to  start  him? 
How  much  am  I  offered  to  start  him?  Five  hundred! 
Who  is  insane,  or  jokes?  Five  hundred  for  a  nigger  like 
this?  Nonsense!  Now,  here,  come  forward,  and  feel 
this  nigger's  muscles,  examine  his  teeth,  strike  his  breast." 
And,  to  emphasize  his  good,  robust  property,  he  struck 
the  slave  a  resounding  lick  across  the  breast,  that  would 
have  knocked  over  half  the  people  before  him.  Wyeth 
could  seem  to  see  the  man,  the  black  man,  merely  smile 
at  all  the  faces  about  him. 

"And  now  I  am  going  to  offer  you  something  that  will 
arouse  you.  Bring  forward  the  wench,  the  pretty  young 
wench." 

A  young  mulatto  Negress  now  stood  before  the  crowd. 
A  stirring,  a  collecting  near  the  front,  a  crowding  about 
the  block;  some  almost  getting  upon  it,  in  their  excite 
ment.  A  murmur  went  the  rounds,  and  words  could 
be  heard.  "I'd  like  to  own  her!"  There  was  a  con 
sulting  of  bank  books,  a  figuring  of  credit,  and  then  the 
auctioneers  voice  was  heard  again. 

"Look  at  'er,  look  at  'er!  Ha!  A  fine  one,  eh?  Yes, 
a  fine  one.  .  .  .  Look  at  her  form.  .  .  .  Look  at  her  face! 
Here,  bright  eyes,  hold  up,  hold  up,  and  let  the  boys 
see  what  I  have  got.  .  .  .  What  am  I  bid?" 


THE  SLAVE  MARKET  509 

"$1000." 

"Say!  The  man  that  made  that  bid  ought  to  be 
hung!  A  thousand  dollars  for  a  wench  like  this?  Why, 
by  all  the  pious  gods,  she  is  worth  that  for  a  year.  .  .  ." 

"$1500." 

"$2000." 

"$2500." 

"$3000." 

"Ah,  sir,"  said  someone,  and  Wyeth  came  back  to  the 
present,  to  look  down  upon  and  old,  white-haired  woman, 
who  was  standing,  observing  him  from  the  doorway. 
He  bowed  apologetically,  got  down,  and  went  toward  her. 

"I  have  charge  of  the  building,"  said  she,  speaking  in 
a  little  strained  voice.  "Would  you  not  like  to  view 
the  interior?" 

"I  should  like  to,  I  am  sure,"  he  replied. 

He  followed  her  back  to  the  door  through  which  he 
had  entered,  and  up  a  flight  of  winding,  iron  stairs  to 
the  next  floor.  Even  these,  he  saw,  had  once  been 
most  magnificent.  His  guide  offered  no  comment,  but 
caught  her  breath  in  gasps  as  she  ascended.  When  the 
landing  had  been  reached,  both  paused  for  breath,  while 
Wyeth's  attention  was  immediately  caught  by  the 
decaying  grandeur,  that  was  evident  all  about  him. 
"Wonderful,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  low,  respectful  voice, 
and  as  though  he  feared  to  disturb  some  of  those  grand 
persons  that  once  had  frequented  it. 

"Wonderful,  you  say?"  echoed  the  woman,  and 
regarded  him  out  of  small,  sharp  eyes. 

"Magnificent." 

"And,  be  you  a  stranger  in  the  city?"   she  now  asked. 

"Yes." 

"And  from  where  do  you  come?" 

"The  great  northwest.     Dakota." 

"Ah,  Dakota— m-m.    That  is  far,  far  away?" 

"Yes;  far,  far  away." 

"I  have  never  been  there.  I  have  never  been  any 
where,  but  have  always  lived  here  in  Bienville  Parish. 
I  was  born  here,  a  Creole." 

They  now  walked  down  the  wide  hall,  and  where  he 


510  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

gazed  into  the  deserted  rooms  on  either  side,  all  of  which 
revealed  a  once  greatsplendor. 

"Here,"  she  said,  "is  a  room  that  once  played  a 
conspicuous  part  in  the  old  south."  She  led  him  then 
into  a  large  room,  much  larger  than  any  other  in  the 
building.  It  was  a  round  room,  and  he  could  see  that  it 
had  been  made  to  be  used  for  convention  purposes. 
She  was  explaining. 

"It  was  once  used  as  a  temporary  capitol,  and  later 
as  a  rendezvous  for  secessionists.  And  still  later,  after 
the  war,  Sheridan  made  a  raid,  and  arrested  many  con 
spirators." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Sidney,  "that  this  place  has  seen 
many  grand  occasions?" 

"Ah,  indeed  it  has.  All  the  aristocrats  of  the  south 
land  always  stopped  here,  as  well  as  counts  and  dukes 
and  lords  and  great  ladies,  and  still  from  South  America 
and  Mexico  the  best  people  stopped  here." 

They  passed  out  of  the  room,  across  the  hallway,  and 
entered  another  room  that  was  furnished.  "I  live  here," 
said  the  woman,  to  his  surprise. 

"Here— alone?" 

She  nodded.     "Yes,  alone  for  many  years." 

He  understood  now,  and,  running  his  hands  into  his 
pockets,  he  pulled  forth  a  half  dollar,  and  handed  it  to 
her.  She  accepted  it  with  many  thanks,  and  gave  him 
then,  some  pictures  and  relics. 

"I  suppose  you  have  many  visitors — tourists?"  he 
inquired,  starting  toward  the  door. 

"Well,  no,  I  do  not,"  she  said,  somewhat  regretfully. 
"The  people  do  not  seem  to  wander  down  into  this 
section.  They  do  not  appear  curious  for  relics,  as  they 
used  to  be." 

"That's  too  bad — for  you,"  he  said  kindly. 

"  It  is,  since  I  am  old,  and  have  no  other  way  of  getting 
my  living,"  and  she  sighed. 

"How  old  are  you?" 

"Eighty-nine." 

"And  you  have  no — no  children?"  he  asked  now, 
with  curious  interest. 


THE  SLAVE  MARKET  511 

"None.  And  that — and  that,  perhaps,  is  why  I'm 
like  I  am  today.  .  .  ." 

Wyeth  listened  kindly,  patiently.  The  other  appeared 
sad  and  reminiscent. 

"No,  I  shall  never  seem  to  get  over  it,  either.  I  am 
the  last  of  a  family  that  came  here  from  France,  many, 
many  years  ago — two  hundred,  to  be  exact.  For  many 
years,  we  were  the  richest  family  in  Bienville  Parish, 
and  perhaps  almost  as  rich  as  any  other  in  the  state. 
We  owned  land,  and  slaves,  until  we  could  hardly  count 
them.  Of  course,  the  war  meant — you  can  understand 
what  we  lost  with  the  freedom  of  the  blacks.  But  after 
that,  we  were  still  immensely  rich.  But,  somehow,  a 
curse  seemed  to  come  over  the  family.  No  boy  babies 
were  born  to  any.  The  girls  became  subject  to  con 
sumption,  until  all  had  died  but  myself.  Then  I  married.. 
My  husband  was  Spanish  and  French,  very  affectionate, 
and  was  good  to  me,  and  we  were  hopeful  and  happy — 
until  I  bore  him  no  offspring.  He  grew  crabbed,  nervous 
and  impatient. 

"Before  long,  I  came  to  see  that  he  was  intimate 
elsewhere.  He  began  to  drink,  to  gamble,  and  to  carouse. 
He  stayed  out  until  all  hours  of  the  night,  and  then  he 
got  so  he  would  not  come  home  at  all.  For  days  I  would 
not  see  him,  and  then  for  weeks."  She  paused  long 
enough  now  to  wipe  a  tear.  "I  began  to  fear  for  him, 
for,  I  recalled  that  his  ancestors  had  come  to  abrupt  ends, 
and  I  worried.  Because  I  could  bear  him  no  children, 
I  gave  him  freely  of  the  fortune  that  was  left  to  me. 
He  ran  through  with  his,  and  then  with  mine/'  She 
was  weeping  quietly  now,  and  he  felt  inclined  to  comfort 
her,  but  did  not  know  how. 

After  a  time  she  was  calm  again.  She  took  a  seat  by 
the  window,  and  gazed  with  a  tired  expression  out  into 
the  street,  while  he  waited.  "Well,"  she  resumed,  "they 
brought  him  home  one  day,  dead,  and  I  have  been  alone 
since." 

"Too  bad,"  said  Wyeth,  and  shifted  about,  listening 
for  more,  for,  carefully  observant,  he  saw  that  she  was 
not  through. 


512  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"One  day,  there  came  a  woman,  an  attractive  colored 
woman,  with  large  eyes  and  the  most  beautiful  hair  and 
skin  and  form  I  had  ever,  I  think,  seen.  She  led  a  little 
boy  by  the  hand,  and  when  he  looked  up  at  me,  I 
screamed.  I  knew  then,  and  didn't  have  to  be  told, 
that  he  was  my  husband's  son. 

"Strangely,  I  was  happy.  To  know  that  my  good 
husband — for  he  had  been  good  in  the  beginning — had 
left  his  name,  somewhat  cheered  me,  and  we  agreed  to 
educate  and  give  him  a  chance. 

"We  placed  him  later,  at  my  expense,  in  a  good  school, 
and  he  grew  to  be  a  handsome,  bright-eyed  young  man. 
I  watched  him,  however,  with  a  slight  fear — for  I  remem 
bered.  But  he  made  a  man  of  himself,  a  successful  man, 
and  with  the  last  few  thousands  I  could  gather,  I  helped 
to  start  him  in  business,  and  in  due  time  he  had  made 
a  name  that  was  an  envy.  He  became  the  owner  of 
much  of  the  best  property  in  the  city,  land  in  the  northern 
part  of  the  state,  and,  in  the  end,  married  one  of  the 
wealthiest  and  most  attractive  girls  in  the  town.  She 
paused  again,  and  Wyeth  listened  without  a  word. 
Something  remained  yet  to  be  told.  .  .  . 

The  woman  was  speaking  again. 

"Yes,  he  grew  to  success  and  happiness — and  then, 
well,  something  happened." 

"Something  happened?"  Wyeth  echoed. 

"Yes.  Something  happened."  She  was  silent  now, 
and  gazed  again  out  of  the  window. 

"Heredity." 

"Heredity?"  And  still  he  did  not  understand.  He 
could  not  be  patient  longer.  "Who  was  this  man — that 
is,  ah — what  was  his  name.  I  don't  think  I  ever  heard 
of  him — a  colored  man?" 

She  looked  straight  at  him  now,  without  a  change  of 
expression,  and  answered:  "He  was  not  colored!" 

"Not  colored?" 

"I  should  have  said,"  she  corrected,  "that  he  didn't 
go  as  colored.  ...  He  passed  for  white." 

"Oh.  .  .  ." 

"But  that  was  not  it — heredity." 


THE  SLAVE  MARKET  513 

Wyeth  said  nothing. 

"He  ran  around.  He  took  up  drink — and  then  he 
wanted — colored  women/' 

After  this,  both  were  silent  for  a  long  time;  but  Wyeth 
was  thinking.  He  was  hearing  over  again  what  he  had 
heard  before — many  times.  "Colored  women!"  In  Dixie, 
he  felt  that  if  he  could  keep  his  ears  deaf  to  hearing  of 
white  men — and  those  who  "passed"  for  white — want 
ing — and  having — colored  women,  he  could,  he  possibly 
might  like  the  country;  but  everywhere  he  had  heard 
this.  The  woman  broke  the  silence. 

"This  city  is  possessed  with  that  .desire.  Have  you 
observed  it — everywhere  you  might  chance  to  look,  you 
will  see  it?" 

He  sighed.  She  looked  at  him  again,  and  then  became 
silent. 

Across  the  way,  a  large,  municipal  building  rose  far 
above  St.  Louis — Royal  Hotel — Slave  Market.  Through 
the  window  from  where  they  sat,  busy  clerks  worked 
away  over  books.  When  their  eyes  glanced  to  the 
street,  it  was  broken  with  automobiles,  and  busy  people 
hurrying  to  and  fro. 

"I  have  a  visitor,"  he  heard  the  woman  say.  "She  is 
a  sweet,  kind,  but  sad  sort  of  girl.  She  has  been  to  see 
me  several  times  of  late,  and  I  have  been  talking  religion 
with  her.  In  all  my  days,  no  human  being  has  interested 
me  as  she  has.  I  love  her.  And  while  I  can't  object, 
I  regret  to  feel  in  some  way  that  she  is  going  to  enter 
the  convent,  and  become  a  sister." 

"Are  you  a  Catholic?" 

"All  French  are  Catholic,"  she  answered. 

"Then  you  perforce  sanction  this  intention  of  your 
girl  friend?" 

"Yes,  I  do;  but,  oh,  how  much  I  shall  miss  her!" 

"Will  she  enter  soon?" 

"Very  soon!" 

"Have  you  known  her  long?" 

"A  few  months;  but  it  seems  I  have  known  her  all 
my  life." 

"Is  she — what  is  she,  colored  or  white?"  he  asked. 

33 


514  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

"Colored." 

"Indeed.    Her  name?" 

"I  have  it;  but  I  forget.  I  call  her  always  Little  Sister. 
I  have  her  picture  and  will  let  you  see  it.  She  had  it 
taken  a  few  days  ago,  out  there  on  that  grass  plot/' 
and  she  pointed  to  the  yard  of  the  municipal  building. 
She  was  a  few  minutes  finding  the  picture,  and  then 
Wyeth  was  overcome  by  a  strange  feeling,  with  regard 
to  what  he  had  heard.  A  girl  ....  sad  ....  going  to 
enter  a  convent.  .  .  .  Who  was  this  girl?  Who,  who, 
who? 

"Here  is  her  picture,"  said  the  woman. 

He  took  it,  and  saw  Mildred  smiling  up  at  him. 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

"Restitution" 

"I  had  to,"  cried  Mildred  bewilderingly,  as  she  hurried, 
hatless,  breathless,  along  the  walk,  when  she  left  her 
lover  so  abruptly.  She  was  distracted;  she  was  not 
fully  aware  of  what  she  said.  All  she  knew  was,  that  at 
the  most  supreme  moment  of  her  existence,  she  had 
broken  away  from  the  one  she  loved,  and  for  whom  she 
would  have  been  willing  to  die;  but  to  marry  him  at 
last,  she  felt  she  could  not  conscientiously  do.  "Oh, 
but  it  was  manly,  kindly — sublime,  his  offer,  and  how 
I  love  him  for  it!"  she  whispered.  "I  know  he  will 
forgive  me;  he  will  remember  me  kindly;  he  will  never 
forget  me,  and  my  love  for  him — but  to  go  to  him  and 
make  him  suffer  with  the  thought  of  the  past — never!" 

She  slowed  down,  as  she  neared  the  wide  street,  that 
crossed  just  ahead  of  her.  She  crossed  the  walk  to  the 
center  of  the  street,  where  a  car  was  coming,  and  caught 
it.  Once  inside  and  seated,  she  lay  back,  and  became, 
for  a  time,  dully  listless.  Presently,  she  saw  the  river 
just  ahead,  and  when  the  car  slowed  down,  she  left  it, 
crossed  to  the  ferry,  and  went  aboard.  A  half  hour 
later,  she  was  in  her  room. 

Her  sister  greeted  her  pleasantly  from  the  garden, 
which  aroused  her  emotion  to  such  a  degree,  that  she 
choked  slightly,  in  order  to  hold  back  words  she  had 
long  wished  to  say. 

When  alone  at  last  in  her  room,  she  lay  across  the 
bed,  and  gave  up  to  the  feeling  of  inertia,  that  had  taken 
possession  of  her. 

All  that  day  she  remained  so.  She  could  scarcely 
collect  her  wits.  Again  and  again,  the  events  connected 
with  his  return,  flew  through  her  dull,  sluggish  mind, 


515 


516  THEfFORGED  NOTE 

and,  at  last,  to  relieve  it,  she  dressed  in  a  cool,  thin 
dress,  and  went  for  a  walk  down  by  the  river  front. 

She  passed  many  docks,  where  not  so  many  steamers 
lay  at  anchor  as  she  had  once  noticed.  She  wondered 
why,  since  she  had  observed  the  falling  off  of  traffic. 
Then  she  thought  about  the  bloodshed  that  was  going 
on  each  day  across  the  water.  She  soon  came  abreast 
of  a  wharf  where  more  than  a  score  of  great  ocean  goers 
were  anchored.  No  smoke  came  from  their  funnels; 
no  men  worked  away  on  their  decks;  in  fact,  they  were 
as  silent  as  the  grave,  their  dark  hulls  casting  a  dull 
shadow  above  the  water.  She  wandered  down  the 
board  platform,  and  studied  them  idly.  Then  she  read, 
painted  on  their  sterns,  names  with  Bremen  and  Ham 
burg  as  their  port.  .  .  .  Her  thoughts  again  reverted  to 
the  carnage  across  the  waters. 

She  found  the  street  again,  and  wandered  aimlessly 
along  the  sidewalk.  Suddenly  she  halted  and  strained 
her  ears,  as  a  sound  came  to  her  from  some  distance. 
She  listened,  and  then  looked  up  and  across  the  river, 
where  the  Creole  city  stretched,  apparently  endless, 
before  her.  She  observed  in  doing  so,  for  the  first  time, 
that  the  river  curved  in  such  a  manner  as  to  form  a 
perfect  crescent  at  this  point,  and,  although  her  thoughts 
were  confused,  she  did  not  fail  to  appreciate  the  beauty 
of  it. 

Her  gaze  had  found  the  place  from  whence  came  the 
sound  that  had  halted  her.  It  was  the  bell  of  a  church 
vibrating  through  the  still  evening  air.  The  steeple  in 
which  it  was  mounted,  raised  far  into  the  air  above  the 
buildings  about  it,  and  she  watched  it  with  growing 
reverence.  As  she  continued  to  stare  at  it,  it  seemed  to 
outline  a  mighty  sepulchre,  and  she  fell  to  speculating 
about  it.  She  was  familiar  with  it,  in  a  measure,  and 
recalled,  as  she  found  herself  wandering  vaguely  along 
a  few  moments  later,  that  she  used  to  pass  it  each  day. 
It  was  when  he  lay  ill  at  the  hospital,  that  it  was  near. 
It  was  called  St.  Catherine.  She  had  happily  observed 
that  may  little  colored  children  went  to  it  each  day,  and 
Sunday.  Their  training,  she  had  observed,  was  very 


"RESTITUTION"  517 

different  from  the  denominations  with  which  she  was 
acquainted.  She  had  stopped  before  its  steeple  the  first 
time,  one  day  toward  the  close  of  Sidney's  recovery. 
The  next  day  she  had  entered  it,  and  wandered  down  its 
carpeted  aisles.  She  had  gone  up  to  the  front,  before  she 
realized  that  any  one  was  in  the  church.  And  then  a 
sister  came  from  an  alcove,  or  from  some  place,  but  she 
could  not  imagine  where. 

She  had  halted  embarrassed,  but  the  other  smiled 
upon  her  so  pleasantly,  that  her  confidence  was  won  in 
a  moment. 

Mildred  recalled  it — the  meeting — strangely  today. 
She  wondered  what  the  life  of  a  sister  was  like.  She  had 
guessed  what  it  meant.  .  .  .  She  had  almost  forgotten  the 
sister,  until  she  went  her  way  this  day,  when  the  lot  of 
those  patient  souls  came  to  her  mind  again. 

She  reached  a  street  presently,  where  two  wide  walk 
ways  intersected,  and  when  she  reached  the  center  of 
the  intersection,  something  gripped  her  and  she  stopped 
quickly,  catching  her  breath.  She  continued  to  stand 
thus,  but  with  eyes  widening,  nerves  tense,  and  then 
she  uttered  beneath  her  breath:  "Why  not?  Yes,  why 
not?  Why,  why,  why?"  Then,  completely  absorbed  in 
the  idea,  which  had  suddenly  come  to  her,  offering,  as 
she  felt  it  now,  a  solution  of  her  life,  she  turned  on  her 
heel,  and  retraced  her  steps  homeward. 

And  all  the  way  she  kept  saying  to  herself:  "Why  not, 
why,  why?" 

She  hesitatedfat  the  gate,  and  again  there  came  to  her 
ears  from  across  the  river  the  chime  of  the  bell  on  St. 
Catherine.  It  echoed  softly,  and  vibrating,  it  touched 
her  soul  to  its  depths.  She  stood  at  last  transformed. 
As  it  continued  to  float  across  to  her,  she  seemed  to 
translate:  "Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  are  heavy  laden, 
and  I  will  give  thee  rest." 

When  she  entered  the  house,  her  head  hung,  with  eyes 
cast  down.  She  had  decided  to  become  a  sister. 

There  came  a  day,  bright,  clear,  and  slightly  breezy; 
but  withal,  invigorating,  and  she  went  to  visit  the  old 


518  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

woman  who  lived  alone  in  the  deserted  St.  Louis — Royal 
Hotel.  She  had  no  tremors,  because  it  had  been  the 
place  where  once  her  people  were  sold  by  thousands. 
She  had  met  the  old  woman  on  one  of  her  frequent 
pilgrimages  alone  in  the  creole  city,  and  had  become 
strangely  fond  of  her.  Mildred  had,  on  more  than  one 
occasion,  felt  constrained  to  tell  her  the  story.  ...  So 
today,  she  came  quietly  upon  the  old  soul  sitting  by  the 
window,  with  the  light  streaming  in  upon  her  faded  hair 
and  features. 

"You  come  today,  Little  Sister.  I  am  always  so  glad 
to  see  you." 

Mildred  returned  the  greeting  kindly  and  pleasantly, 
and  sank  into  the  proffered  chair.  She  had  told  the 
other  of  her  intentions,  but  offered  no  reason  for  her 
decision.  She  asked  today  that  the  other  bless  her, 
which  was  done.  They  sat  afterward  in  mutual  silence. 
Presently,  however,  the  other  broke  it. 

"A  young  man  was  here  yesterday,  a  strange,  kind, 
forgiving  sort  of  fellow.  He  aroused  me  in  a  way;  he 
brought  back,  by  his  presence,  memories,  and  I  don't 
know  why;  but  I  told  him  my  story.  ...  He  listened  so 
patiently,  so  kindly,  and  with  such  sympathy,  I  do 
declare,  that  I  wept/' 

"A  young  man?    A— 

"A  young  colored  man  from  away  off  in  the  great 
northwest." 

"Sidney,  oh,  Sidney,"  Mildred  breathed,  unheard. 

"And  do  you  know,  dear  Little  Sister,  I  thought  of 
you  almost  all  the  time  he  listened,  and  was  near  me.  .  .  . 
I  don't  know  why.  I  cannot  imagine  predestination  in 
a  large  sense;  but  in  some  way  I  felt  he  suffered."  She 
paused,  and  Mildred  swallowed.  After  a  time  she  said, 
in  a  small  voice: 

"I  guess  I'll  go  now." 

The  other  did  not  detain  her,  though  she  wished  she 
would  never  leave,  but  followed  her  out  of  the  silent  old 
place  down  to  the  street,  and  watched  her  out  of  sight. 

She  passed  through  one  of  the  narrow  streets  to  the 
banking  section  of  the  city,  entered  the  one  where  Sidney's 


"RESTITUTION"  519 

money  was  deposited,  which  he  had  given  back  to  her, 
and  she  had  it  made  into  a  draft.  This  was  mailed  forth 
with  to  him.  Then  she  recrossed  the  river,  and  when  in 
her  room,  packed  all  her  belongings  securely,  and  then 
wrote  a  long  letter  to  her  sister.  In  this,  she  told  of  her 
life  from  the  day  she  had  left  home  on  the  mission  .... 
omitting  why  she  had  done  this  ....  up  to  the  day. 
She  wrote  that  she  loved  a  young  man,  loved  him,  so  that 
she  could  not  bear  to  become  his,  and  feel  that  she  was 
guilty — unworthy.  She  closed  it,  asking  her  sister  to 
accept  all  she  left — which  was  everything,  but  what  she 
wore. 

She  retired,  for  night  had  come,  and  slept  so  peacefully 
the  night  through,  that  she  was  surprised.  She  dressed 
before  the  others  arose,  and  slipped  into  the  street. 

In  due  time,  she  stood  at  the  gates  of  St.  Catherine. 
It  was  still  early,  and  the  people  were  not  much  astir, 
when  again  the  chimes  came  to  her  ears,  a  hundred  and 
more  feet  above  her.  She  listened,  and  as  they  con 
tinued  to  ring,  she  gradually  became  transformed.  No 
one  came,  so  she  entered  the  gate,  went  around  to  the 
side,  and  took  a  seat. 

Her  mind  became  reflective  and  reverted  to  the  past, 
and  she  found  herself  living  it  over,  again  and  again. 
But,  as  she  reviewed  it,  she  seemed  to  have  no  regrets; 
she  did  not  foster  the  kind  of  hopes  she  once  had,  and 
then  she  arose  and  found  her  way  again  to  the  front. 
She  approached  the  door,  and  when  she  tried  the  knob, 
found  that  it  was  open.  The  priest  was  just  leaving 
through  a  side  door  as  she  entered,  and  did  not  hear  her 
footfall,  as  she  passed  lightly  down  the  carpeted  aisle. 

She  stood  before  the  altar,  when  she  had  come  to  the 
other  end,  and  getting  down  upon  her  knees,  offered  a 
silent  little  prayer.  She  remained  there  until  the  flood 
of  emotion — for  she  found  herself  peculiarly  emotional 
today — had  passed,  and  then  arose.  She  gazed  at  the 
emblem  of  the  Christ  before  her  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
turning,  she  walked  into  Sidney  Wyeth,  who  had  come 
upon  her,  and  was  waiting  while  she  was  in  prayer. 

"Mildred/'  he  said,  and  his  voice  came  low,  even,  and 


520  THE  FORGED  NOTE 

respectful.  "I  know.  ..."  This  was  all  he  said;  but 
the  hungry  look  in  his  eyes  told  all  else.  .  .  . 

She  halted  before  him  without  any  undue  excitement 
in  her  manner,  but  her  eyes  were  downcast.  She  recalled 
even  now,  that  she  had  never  been  able  to  return  his 
piercing  gaze.  She  kept  her  head  bent,  with  her  small 
hands  folded  before  her,  but  listened  with  something 
akin  to  a  heavenly  rapture.  He  was  speaking  again. 

"I  am  not  going  to  infringe  upon  your  liberty  by 
asking  you  to  give  up  what  is  your  intention.  I've 
come,  Mildred,  just  to  see — to  look  into  your  eyes  once 
more,  before  you  go  your  way.  .  .  .  That  is  all  I  ask. 
You  will  grant  me  that,  won't  you,  Mildred?"  They 
stood  facing  each  other,  only  a  few  feet  apart.  He  held 
his  hat  crushed  in  his  hand,  while  she  did  not  release  her 
grip  on  the  cross  she  held.  He  watched  her,  as  she 
slowly  raised  her  head,  as  her  eyebrows  came  slowly 
into  view,  and  then  at  last  her  eyes.  .  .  .  They  looked  into 
his  now.  His  looked  into  hers.  Slowly,  they  spoke — both 
pairs  of  eyes.  No  words  passed  their  lips,  but  each 
could  seem  to  hear  a  soul  within  crying:  "Restitution! 
Restitution!" 

How  long  they  stood  thus,  they  did  not  know.  But, 
after  a  time,  something  seemed  to  break  the  spell.  Per 
haps  it  was  the  departed  souls.  They  knew  not,  were 
not  even  aware  of  what  was  passing.  Still,  the  eyes  of 
each,  hypnotic,  struggling  with  the  fire  of  incarnation, 
slowly  drew  them  nearer.  They  were  at  last  near  each 
other.  Their  breaths  came  in  strange,  tender  gasps. 
Their  eyes  continued  to  see  and  regard  each  other  in 
that  heavenly  rapture.  And  still  no  word  was  spoken. 

His  hands  seemed  to  find  hers  and  the  cross.  They 
gathered  them  and  held  them  fast,  while  out  of  her  ethereal 
eyes  he  saw  a  divine  glory  never  to  be  forgotten.  Then 
his  left  arm  rose.  It  slowly  encircled  her  form.  They 
heard  now,  each  others  heart.  And  then  something 
else  seemed  to  guide  him.  His  head  went  down,  while 
his  eyes  still  looked  into  Mildred's  with  that  peculiar 
enchantment.  He  placed  his  cheek  against  hers,  with 
gentleness  and  reverence. 


"RESTITUTION"  521 

When  the  good  father  came  again  into  the  church,  he 
paused  as  he  watched  a  couple  pass  slowly  down  the 
aisle.  They  were  a  man  and  a  woman.  His  arm  rested 
about  the  slender  shoulders  of  his  companion,  with  great 
tenderness. 

So  together,  they  went  to  that  land  in  the  west. 

THE  END 


PS3515 


Her  father  and  husband  represented 
beings  with  different  points  of  view,  and 
on  this  account  an  enmity  grew  up  be 
tween  them.  The  husband  had  often 
publicly  criticised  some  of  the  leaders  in 
his  race  as  not  being  sincere,  particularly 
many  of  the  preachers.  A  year  after  the 
marriage,  the  preacher  paid  his  second 
visit  and  when  the  husband  was  away,  to 
indicate  his  dislike  for  the  pioneer,  he 
had  his  daughter,  who  was  sick  in  bed, 
forge  her  husband's  name  to  a  check  for 
a  large  sum,  secured  the  money  and  took 
his  daughter  to  his  home  in  Chicago. 

The  homestead  had  been  contested  pre 
vious  to  this,  and  the  minister  had  de 
nounced  the  white  man  (a  banker),  who 
filed  the  contest,  scathingly  for  trying  to 
beat  his  daughter  out  of  her  homestead. 
Left  alone  after  her  departure,  with  only 
his  ninety-year-old  grandmother,  who 
had  raised  a  family  in  the  days  of  slavery, 
for  company,  Mr.  Micheaux  wrote  his 
first  book.  In  the  meantime,  the  case 
dragged  through  all  the  land  courts  at 
Washington,  being  finally  settled  by  Sec 
retary  of  the  Interior  Lane  in  her  favor. 
About  this  time,  the  book  appeared,  and 
was  called  "THE  CONQUEST". 

In  this  was  told  anonymously  the  story 
of  a  base  intrigue  on  the  part  of  the 
preacher  to  vent  his  spite.  The  white 
banker,  whose  bank  in  the  meantime  had 
failed,  read  the  book,  and  understood.  .  . 
He  went  to  Chicago  and  sent  the  preacher 
money  to  Cairo  to  come  to  Chicago,  which 
the  preacher  did.  Although  unsuccessful 
in  his  effort  before  the  government  to 
beat  Mr.  Micheaux's  wife  out  of  her 
homestead,  which  had  cost  Mr.  Micheaux 
thirty-five  hundred  dollars  and  which  at 
that  time  was  worth  six  thousand  dollars, 
the  banker  succeeded  in  having  the 
preacher  persuade  his  daughter  to  sell 
him  the  homestead,  giving  her  in  consider 
ation,  only  three  hundred  dollars.* 

*NOTE— Until  a  homestead  is  commuted— 
proved  up  on — it  may  be  relinquished  by  the  holder 
without  any  person's  or  persons'  consent.  The 
woman,  therefore,  in  this  case  could  sell  the  home 
stead  without  her  husband's  consent. 


